The Wolfman of Scotland Yard
by Dawn's Edge
Summary: A recently infected Inspector Aberline copes with the repercussions of his curse with the help of Gwen Conliffe, all while trying to juggle being a Scotland Yard Inspector the other 29 days of the month.
1. Superstition

A sharp rap at the door roused Frederick "Francis" Aberline from his muddled thoughts, causing his eyes to narrow as he called out to whoever was knocking. "Come in."

The door to his office opened slightly, and Hopkins' head appeared from behind it. Inspector George Hopkins had recently been promoted to the Central Office division at Scotland Yard after the death of Inspector Harrison Carter. Now, he worked directly under Chief Inspector Aberline, a man whom he had admired for many years and had the pleasure of working with on occasion in the past.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but...," his voice lowered to a whisper, " _she's_ back again."

Inspector Aberline pursed his thin lips and rolled his eyes in annoyance. He was already having a headache that day, and he did not need it to become a full-blown migraine.

Hopkins took notice of his superior's aggravated demeanor and nodded his head in understanding. He and everyone else at Scotland Yard were in agreement—the Conliffe woman was starting to become rather a bit of a pain. For the past several weeks she had come in to see the inspector, spouting on about important issues that, when asked to elaborate on, she would not discuss further. She had demanded to speak only to Aberline. Really, there was nothing more that the woman could tell them; the case had already been closed—the maniac responsible killed and done away with. London and the village of Blackmoor were just beginning to move on from the tragedies that befell them. No one wanted her stirring up what need not be stirred up.

"What shall I do with her, sir? Send her away like the other dozen or so times?" he said lightly, smirking at his small jab. Aberline sniffed in response, but his face still remained strained. To Hopkins, he appeared rather haggard.

The inspector sighed as he opened a desk drawer and placed the folder that he had been reading inside. "I suppose I could humor her this one time," he said, closing the drawer and returning his gaze to the severed head staring expectantly back at him. Of course, he knew that the head was not actually severed, and that Hopkins' body was most likely huddled against the other side of the door, but the imagery still caused him to grimace. Lately, his thoughts had been taking a turn for the morbid, which he supposed was to be expected after last month's ordeal.

Hopkins saw the grimace and brushed it off as another of the inspector's headaches. "Very good, sir. I'll send her in." He gave a short nod and closed the door.

Aberline stared at the dark oak for several seconds, and then turned in his chair so that he was able to look out the large window of his office. His eyes traveled skyward, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. The grey London sky was, as usual, looking rather dreary, and in the distance he could see several dark clouds rolling in, bringing with them the promise of rain. Perhaps that was the cause of today's headaches.

The sound of the door opening behind him made him shift frontward in his chair, and his sharp eyes honed in on the black-clad woman with pinned up dark brown hair. Without speaking, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Miss Conliffe nodded at his invitation and sat down obediently.

Aberline continued to stare at her, tongue in cheek. She stared back at him, and he couldn't help but want to retreat away from the overwhelmingly determined look in her eyes.

"Hello, Inspector. Admiring the beautiful London weather?" she asked conversationally.

Aberline could hear the thinly concealed derision in her voice, and he huffed in response. "What do you want, Miss Conliffe? Why are you so adamant in coming down to Scotland Yard every other day to speak with me? Surely you do not find me _that_ interesting." He saw her swallow, and for a brief moment she glanced away. He was making her uncomfortable. Good. Maybe she would finally get the hint and never bother him again. But he knew that was only wishful thinking.

"You know why I come," she said, looking him square in the face once more.

Aberline felt his jaw clench. "You come to tell me about superstition. Fantasy and witchcraft," he said condescendingly.

"I come here to warn you, Inspector," she said, raising her voice in irritation. Her eyes shown bright with renewed determination. "I've been trying to contact you, but you have spurned me each time. You know what tonight brings."

The inspector sighed wearily. "Yes, I am aware of the full moon tonight. That's all every bloke from London to Blackmoor has been raving about. What of it?" he asked, trying to sound disinterested, if only just to anger her further.

Gwen's lips parted, and then closed. She was struggling to control her annoyance with the flippant inspector. "Is your memory so clouded from that night, exactly one month ago, that you cannot see what tonight's full moon will bring?" she said through grit teeth.

Aberline's eyes flared with anger and he lurched forward unexpectedly, slamming both hands on his desk. " _Lawrence Talbot is dead!"_ he hissed. Gwen flinched at his outburst, and the inspector reigned in his anger and leaned back slowly into his leather seat. Regaining some control over the situation, he spoke again in a more level tone. "There is no danger. Neither here, nor in Blackmoor. You need to see that, Miss Conliffe. You must get past this, as I have done."

"No," she countered, gathering her courage from earlier. "It is you who needs help seeing, Inspector. Lawrence Talbot was a cursed man. He was bitten by the wolf on the full moon. You—"

" _I_ ," he ground out, "was bitten, yes. But that does not mean anything. Lawrence Talbot, assuming he was afflicted by some... _gypsy_ ," he spoke the word acidly, "curse, was given it by his father, whom, from my understanding of things, had long since been afflicted. Now, who is to say that this so-called curse is nothing but the product of genetics? Inheritance passed on only in the bloodline?"

Gwen considered the inspector's explanation. She supposed it could be valid. She _wanted_ it to be. But it was still only a theory, and she was not willing to risk the safety of London on a theory.

"That is certainly possible, I suppose, but Inspector, even you must admit that is just based on assumption. There is no evidence that that is how the curse works."

"And is there any evidence disproving it?" he countered smugly, lifting a challenging eyebrow.

Gwen shook her head. "Please, just for tonight, take some precautions. I have a suitable place in my shop that would surely be adequate—"

"What?" Aberline asked incredulously. "Are you saying you plan to lock me up in some cage? Are you mad?"

"Just for tonight," she assured him quickly, putting her hands up in front of her. "Please, just humor me, Inspector. If you are right, and you are not infected with the curse, then I'll let you out. But if you are..."

"I am not!" he shouted, the vein in his forehead bulging underneath his wan skin. He stood abruptly from his chair and strode past her and over to the door of his office. He gripped the handle tightly and turned back to her. "I think you should leave, Miss Conliffe. I am a very busy man, and I do not need the ramblings of a _clearly_ disturbed woman distracting me from my work."

"'Disturbed?'" Gwen repeated disbelievingly.

"Yes, _disturbed_. Now please, remove yourself from my office."

Gwen stared at him with wide eyes, before lowering them to her lap in defeat. She had tried to make him see reason; now she could only pray for the lives of Londoners as they walked the streets that night.

Silently, she stood and walked over to where the inspector was standing vigil at the door. As she approached, he twisted the knob and opened the door, allowing her passage through. She took one step before turning to look the inspector in his stormy blue eyes. "Please, just tell me one more thing," she whispered to him, aware that there were other people walking about in the hallway outside the room.

"What?" he asked, not even trying to hide his annoyance at her request.

She stared at him a moment, taking in the details of his face. He appeared gaunter since the last time she saw him. There were bags under his eyes, making him appear like he had been going days without sleep. His skin, she had noticed earlier, was slightly more pale than the average Londoner.

"Have the nightmares been keeping you awake?" she asked him cryptically. Had she not been standing right in front of him, she might not have caught the way his eyes widened for barely a fraction of a second, before returning to their natural hard glare.

"Good day, Miss Conliffe," he said coldly.

A second passed between them, until finally her steel grey eyes left his, and she ducked out of his office. Aberline's eyes followed her, and he closed the door when he saw her call for the lift to take her down to the ground floor. Once he was back in the seclusion of his office, he leaned against the door and ran a hand through his auburn hair. His headache was returning with full force.

In that moment, as he stood there, eyes closed, his back against the door, he desperately wished that it was the next day—just to get this whole thing done and over with. But when he opened his eyes, he felt a pang in his chest when he found that he was still standing in his dimly lit office, with the light from the London sky filtering in through the large window, growing steadily darker with the approaching dusk.

With a sigh, he propelled himself from the door and made his way over to his chair. As he sat down, he looked over to the wall clock.

Only four more hours till sundown.

* * *

 **Hope you guys enjoyed! I wrote this immediately after I rewatched the movie. I love werewolves, and the movie inspired me to write a story based on these characters. I don't think I'm alone when I say that I wished they had made a sequel following Aberline. Seriously, a werewolf working at Scotland Yard? Who** ** _wouldn't_** **want to see a movie about that? Well, I'm not sure how often I will be updating this. I'm a spastic writer, meaning when I get in the mood, I can pump out content like nobody's business, but if I lose the motivation, it's lost for quite a while. Hopefully this will get enough support and reviews to keep me attentive. I will say though, that I have two more chapters written, but I'm going to wait a bit between posts so that I can have a somewhat regular waiting period between each chapter. Have a good day!**


	2. Foolishness

"G'night, Inspector," called Hopkins. Aberline had just barely missed him on his way out. He turned to the younger man and gave a short wave.

"Same to you, George," he said half-heartedly as he made his way out the front doors of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. As soon as he stepped foot outside, he was hit with the frigid late evening London air. He frowned when he felt the plop of a fat raindrop on the shoulder of his tan coat. Another hit the brim of his hat, followed by even more. As he suspected, it had begun to rain just as he was leaving work. At least his headache had abated some during the course of the day. Thank goodness for small miracles, he thought bitterly as he walked briskly down the rain-slicked sidewalk. He adjusted his hat and kept his head down as he made his way to his home, which was located only a few blocks away.

Within minutes he arrived at his front door. Pulling out a set of keys from his coat pocket, he inserted a small brass key into the lock and stepped inside. Once out of the rain, he removed his hat, shaking the water off of it and onto the carpet before placing it on the coat rack next to him. He then proceeded to remove his long, tan overcoat, giving it the same shakedown treatment as his hat before also placing it on the rack. Now that he was home, all he wanted to do was unwind, possibly finish that book he had been reading off and on for the past couple of weeks. Anything that would get his mind off of today's unwelcome visit from the Conliffe woman.

Really, the nerve of her! Coming into his workplace, demanding to talk to him about superstitious nonsense. But...was it really nonsense? He shook his head. Of course it had to be! But then again...hadn't he seen it, with his own two eyes, no less? That night at the asylum, and again when he had found the beast in Talbot Hall, surrounded by flames. Against his will, the images appeared at the forefront of his mind—the sight of the wolf creature baring its teeth, him pulling out his revolver and taking aim, the struggle between him and the beast, along with the awful feeling of its incisors tearing into the flesh of his shoulder.

Unconsciously he moved his right hand to cup his left shoulder. It didn't hurt at all anymore. It hadn't been causing him pain for a while now, actually. After returning to London, he had been laid up in a hospital bed for several days with a horrible fever. But as soon as it passed, he was up and back to work again. It was, by all intents and purposes, a miraculous recovery—one that had astounded his physician and colleagues.

The more he thought on the events of the past, the heavier his body felt. He lumbered over to the couch and collapsed onto it. Perhaps he would not read tonight; he found he was having trouble focusing. Instead, he opted to just lie down, resting his head on one of the couch pillows. Hopkins had been telling him he'd been looking rather strained this past week. Maybe the stress of it all was finally bearing down on him. He needed rest, and while he loathed admitting it, the Conliffe woman had been right; he had been having night terrors, powerful enough in their severity that he would wake up at odd hours of the night in a cold sweat and unable to go back to sleep. If pressed, he could not recall what he had been dreaming of before waking. Just...teeth. And rage—so much rage it frightened him. Just thinking about the dreams sent a chill down his spine as he lay on the couch.

His breathing had picked up, and he found that no matter how hard he tried he could not find peace of mind, nor body. Sitting up from the couch, he planted his shoed feet on the hardwood floor and hunched forward. The position felt good after being tense all throughout the day. However, the ill feeling still persisted. He couldn't quite describe it. It felt like a fever, but more than that; he felt nauseated and tired, but still jittery, like he wanted to run. He probably would have shot out the door had it not been for the rain, which was pounding heavily at the window. This didn't make any sense. What had come over him tonight? This was not like him at all. No, when he was ill he wanted only to rest. Right now, all he wanted to do was move. It was an urge he could not put down no matter how much he willed it, and he was a man who prided himself on his willpower.

Slowly, he turned his head to stare out his front window. The sky was turning a deep shade of indigo and, although hidden by the buildings across the street, he could see the glow of the coming moon lighting the sky. The thought of it was driving him batty, and he could not stand it any longer; his moderately spatial living room was starting to feel like a tomb to him now.

 _Dash it all!_

He stood from the couch and went over to where his dampened coat and hat hung from the rack and he placed them back on. He didn't even bother to lock his door as he left his house, jogging down the steps and onto the sidewalk. The rain was coming down in torrents now, leaving very little of him dry. Normally the feeling of wet clothing would be unpleasant to him, but he found that the coolness of it helped combat the heat of his skin. Turning left, he took off at a light jog down the sidewalk, passing several people who had been unfortunate enough to be caught outside during the storm.

 _People must think me mad_ , he thought as he continued his jog—which quickly turned into a full on run—seemingly to nowhere in particular. He could feel his rapidly beating heart pumping blood through his veins. The sensation was invigorating, and he ran faster.

He was unsure of how much time had passed since he left his house, but he eventually slowed to a stop to catch his breath at a street corner. He bent over, hands on his knees, panting. After a moment, he craned his neck upwards to view the street sign; it read in thick, bold letters: **Oxford Street**. That meant he had run about two miles east of his home.

The euphoria he had felt before was waning, being replaced with a full body ache that settled deep in his joints. He reached out his arm and gripped the slick signpost to help keep him righted. The churning in his stomach was returning, along with the nausea he had felt back in his living room. Something was not right; his heart was pounding out of his chest, and his arms and legs were beginning to tremble. Was he having a heart attack? Had he done himself in by acting out on his whim? No, he knew it wasn't a heart attack; a heart attack wouldn't make him feel like _this_. He looked around him through the rain, and his eyes were inexplicably drawn to the sky. He could see the white sliver of the full moon rising above the rooftops, and he was suddenly met with a grim realization that shook him to his very core.

No...it couldn't be! As the small sliver of moon reflected in his stormy eyes, he could almost hear it laughing at him—mocking him for his foolishness. And a fool he had been. He should have listened to Miss Conliffe. And now it was too late.

He looked back down to the street frantically and saw several pedestrians walking about, covering themselves from the rain with whatever they had in their hands. These people were completely unaware of the danger they were in. He had to get somewhere quickly, before he—

The inspector grimaced and dropped to his knees with a groan on the wet pavement as a jolt of pain shot through his spine, branching out like lightning to his ribcage.

 _No! Oh God, please, not already!_

Using what was left of his strength from earlier, he lifted himself from the pavement and turned just in time to bump into a young woman. She reached out to help steady him. "Are you all right, sir? You look about to faint!" the woman exclaimed as she leaned towards him, but he broke out of her grip roughly, sending her stumbling forward.

"I-I'm fine. Please, just go!" He backed away from her and staggered off in the other direction, leaving the woman standing alone at the street corner, confused and rather miffed.

The inspector ran as best he could, but the muscles in his legs seemed to be shifting painfully with every movement. Eventually the best he could manage was a stumble, using the walls of buildings for support. Pain continued to pulse down his back—each contraction coming more frequently, with varying intensities, which he knew did not bode well for him. He was running out of time.

Seeing a narrow entrance between two buildings, he turned into it and nearly fell down into a muddy puddle. He managed to catch himself on the corner of the brick wall, but only just barely. He took this moment to lean heavily against it, trying fruitlessly to calm his ragged breathing. It wasn't long before another wave of pain hit him, prompting him forward down the narrow alleyway. His vision was going in and out now, and he barely avoided tripping over the legs of a beggar that was sitting against the wall and using a newspaper to protect himself from the rain.

"Oi! Watchit!" the old man yelled up at him, before spitting a brown glob at his feet. Aberline was more than happy to ignore the bum, but another jolt coursed through his body, sending him careening into the wall. He fought it with all his might, but found he was rapidly losing control over his body. It would be minutes, maybe seconds, before the change would overtake him completely.

Pressing his forehead against the wet brick, he turned his head to the beggar. "Do...you know where—"

"WOT?" the old beggar shouted, causing Aberline's ears to hurt. He winced and tried to speak again, louder this time.

"Do you know where... _agghh!_ " he snarled and gripped his side as another agonizing wave shook him. Steeling himself, he made one more attempt to talk. If this didn't work, then there was no hope for him and the beggar in the alley, along with anyone else walking to streets of London.

"Conliffe," he managed between grit teeth, which were beginning to cut into his gums, filling his mouth with the acrid taste of blood. "Antique shop...where is it?"

The beggar narrowed his eyes at the inspector from under the wet newspaper. "That a'way, gov!" he said, pointing a ratty gloved finger to the other end of the alley.

Aberline shut his eyes tightly. "Am I close?" he hissed.

"About a minute's walk from 'ere, I'd says. Jus' make a left once ya get outta this alley and folla the path down ta the corner. Now get the fock outta 'ere an' leave me in peace!" The beggar reached out with the newspaper and swatted at the back of Aberline's ankles.

Eager to get as far away from the old man as possible, Aberline moved as quickly as he could out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. Everything around him swayed as he hobbled all the way down to the corner of the street. He looked up at the sign above the corner store door and nearly collapsed with relief. The sign read: **W. Conliffe: Antiquities & Objets D'Arts**. He had made it!

His body shot forward, practically running into the door, and he brought up his fist and began pounding on it like a madman. He could not see through the door's stained glass, so he moved to look into the front window of the store, searching for a sign of anyone inside. The main room was dark, but from somewhere in the back he saw a light turn on, and a woman rounded the corner. Miss Conliffe, he recognized. She was still wearing the black dress from when she had visited his office earlier that day. As soon as she saw him, she rushed to the door. The lights inside turned on and the door opened.

"Inspector!" she cried as she looked over his horrid state. He was soaking wet—his hair clinging in dark strands to his forehead from under the brim of his hat. Drops of rain fell from his beard and mustache, making him look rather pitiful; his expression was one of silent agony. The change was upon him, and there was not much time left by the look of things.

"Please," he gasped. "You have to help me..."

"Come in, quick!" she ordered. Aberline hardly had any time to react when she grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him inside. She slammed the door shut behind them and led him further into the shop. As they moved towards the back, she removed his hat and tossed it on one of the many tables they passed by. She stopped them in front of a door, pulling out a key from her dress pocket. She unlocked the door and opened it to reveal a set of stairs leading down to a cellar. "Hurry, we must get you to the room," she said as she hooked his arm around her back. The inspector only groaned and leaned heavily on her as they made their way down the steps into the darkness. The air was cold and stale, doing nothing to help the soaking wet man at her side. Under her touch, she could feel his muscles tensing and rippling.

They finally reached the bottom step, which put them in front of a heavy iron door that had several latches.

"I had this installed recently," she spoke over her shoulder as she undid the latches, but Aberline barely made out what she had said; he was too busy looking at his hands.

The joints in his fingers were popping out unnaturally—the bones elongating painfully. Dark hairs began creeping up from under the sleeves of his jacket, covering the backs of his hands and knuckles. His nails had also begun to change—blackening and stretching into claws. The sight made him fall to his knees, and this time he knew that he would not be getting up again.

Gwen's eyes widened and she quickly bent down and wrapped her arms around his heaving torso. "Please, we're almost there. Just through this door," she urged, using her hand to push open the heavy door.

Aberline let out a scream of pain and Gwen knew he would be of no help. Gathering all the strength she could muster, she pulled his convulsing body forward, throwing him to the ground in the dark room. His legs were still not past the door, and she bent to help move them, when the inspector kicked out, nearly knocking her over. His feet had begun growing, ripping through his formerly pristine black loafers.

"Oh God," she said, bringing a shaking hand to her mouth. Steeling herself, she attempted to move his legs again. This time he allowed her to, and once he was fully inside, she pulled the heavy door closed and redid all the latches. As soon as she slid the final latch into place, she collapsed back on the stairs in a frazzled heap. She brought her hand to her face and nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

For a long while she stared at the door in front of her, not hearing any noise from the other side. Feeling bold, or stupid, she slowly pressed her ear against the cool metal. She let out a short scream when the door reverberated from a strong, unseen force on the other side ramming into it, followed by a ravenous howl. The ferocity of it sent her scrambling up the steps in a panic. She made it to the top of the steps and slammed the wooden door behind her. With her back firmly pressed against the door, she slid down to the floor, her black dress pooling around her.

She glanced forlornly to the large ornate clock that hung from the wall.

7:53

Lowering her head into her hands, she let out a soft cry mixed with relief and fear. The people of London were safe. For now. But the night was still far from over, she knew, as she once again heard the muffled howl from below, making her shiver.

 **Okay, so I know that Lawrence's first transformation took less than a minute to complete, but I wanted to create tension in this part of the story. So, you'll have to suspend your belief a little... Besides, I've always held the theory that, like with most things, the first time is not going to go smoothly, so changing into a werewolf for the first time when one's body is not used to it seems like it would be a slow, painful process. I noticed that Sir John Talbot, a veteran werewolf, took no time to change at all in his fight with Lawrence, and the transformation was fairly smooth. Also, Aberline was fighting it the whole way through. Well, that's enough of me defending myself, lol. Reviews are appreciated!**


	3. Rude Awakening

It was at least another half hour later when Gwen found the courage and strength to move from her spot on the floor. She gathered up her dress and stood before walking into the parlor and traveling up the stairs to her bedroom.

Since her return to London, she had been living on the second floor of the antique shop. Her father had passed away only two years prior, leaving the management of the store to his only child, being herself. When she went to live with Ben at the Talbot Estate in Blackmoor, the business was taken over by a friend of the family. Gwen had gotten in touch with that friend shortly after arriving back in London, explaining her predicament, and the kindly man was more than happy to allow her to resume management of the shop.

Once in her bedroom, she let her hair down and changed into her nightdress, contemplating what her next course of action would be. She hadn't thought much past locking up the inspector. To be honest, after her rude dismissal from his office she hadn't expected him to even show. She knew she would have to release him in the morning, and he would no doubt be confused and frightened. He would probably need a bath as well, along with some fresh clothes. She glanced over to her bedroom closet, knowing just what he could wear.

Gwen moved over and opened the closet to reveal several boxes littering the floor, and she bent down to sift through them. Finding the right box, she picked it up and placed it over on the bed. Inside were some of Ben's clothes and other belongings she had brought back with her from his room at Talbot Hall. She reached in and pulled out a folded white undershirt and brought it to her nose. It still held Ben's scent, and her heart ached with loss. Placing the shirt down next to the box, she pulled out a pair of black trousers and matching socks. These would have to do. She closed the box and replaced it back into the closet. Now all that was left was to wait until morning.

Shutting the closet door, she closed her eyes and yawned. It was getting late, and the whole ordeal downstairs did nothing to help the ever-present weariness she had been feeling since returning to London. She moved over to the other side of the bed and lifted the covers, before laying down and snuggling into the silk sheets. Her head nestled against the feather-down pillow, but her eyes remained open. They stared out the window in front of her, watching the large glowing white orb that hung ominously above the night clouds. Months ago it would have been a beautiful sight, but now even that was ruined for her. Bitterly, she got up from her comfortable position on the bed and yanked the curtains closed, blocking out the dreaded thing.

Getting back into bed, her thoughts turned from the full moon to the inspector once again. She wondered how he was faring. Was the wolf creature running rampant down in the cold cellar? She had cleared everything out, giving it nothing to sink its claws into, save for the walls and floors. Did the beast ever sleep? With nothing to do, she couldn't imagine it would feel the need to stay up all night. These thoughts began to fade as she drifted into unconscious bliss.

* * *

Morning came all too soon. The sun's beams entered through the slit in the curtains, shining directly onto Gwen's eyelids. Grimacing slightly, she rolled over onto her other side to get away from the offending light. A moment passed before she attempted to rouse her fatigued body, spreading out her arms and legs like a starfish. Her foot was met with resistance at the end of the bed, and she looked down to find her fiancé's clothes there.

The events of the previous night came flooding back to her and she sat up quickly, kicking off the covers. She ran hurriedly from her room and was halfway down the stairs before realizing that she had forgotten to draw a bath for the inspector. Cursing her forgetfulness, she ran back up the stairs and got the bath ready. As the hot water filled the tub, she placed a fresh towel on the towel rack, along with a new bar of soap and washcloth next to the tub. She left the bathroom and went into her room and retrieved the clothes that were on the bed. She brought them back to the bathroom, placing the pile on top of the clothes hamper. Stepping back, she glanced around the bathroom one final time, making sure that she had not forgotten anything. Satisfied that she had done everything she could, she turned off the faucet and headed downstairs to fetch the inspector. She grabbed a candle off a table in the parlor room and lit it with a match before making her way to the cellar stairs.

Was he awake? Asleep? She didn't have much time to ponder this as she reached the bottom landing and undid the latches on the door. Her hand moved to grip the handle, before pausing. What if he was still not himself? She pushed that thought away immediately; Lawrence had mentioned that at the first light of dawn, the beast would go to sleep, allowing for the man to wake. Reassured, her dainty hand gripped the handle resolutely and turned it.

The door opened slowly, the light from upstairs creating a line of white against the grey cement floor. The candle's flame warded off the darkness as Gwen cautiously stepped into the room. In the far corner, she saw the body of a man huddled on the floor with his back to her. Large tears ran down his white shirt, and he was barefoot, the edges of his pants ripped just above his ankles.

"Inspector?" she called to him softly. She thought she might have heard a groan, so she inched closer and called to him again. "Inspector Aberline." This time she saw the slightest movement from the slumbering man. She bent, placing the candle down next to her and rested a tentative hand on his side. "Inspector it's me, Gwen Conliffe. I've come to collect you."

After a moment, the body on the floor shifted sluggishly to face her. The inspector looked up at her with glazed over eyes which, upon recognizing her, widened, and he took in a sharp breath. He sat up quickly and scrambled away from her until his back hit the wall. "S-Stay back!" he shouted at her fearfully. "I'm not safe to be around!"

His body shook violently as he wrapped his arms around himself. Gwen could see that the sleeves of his shirt were ripped, exposing his shoulders and forearms.

"Inspector, you're all right," Gwen spoke softly. "You've been down here all night. You didn't harm anyone."

Aberline continued to look at her with wild eyes, tremors wracking his scantily-clad body. He pulled his arms tighter around himself and looked away in shame. "I should have listened," he whispered, so softly that Gwen, only several feet away, struggled to hear. "I should have..."

Gwen pressed her lips into a thin line. It felt... _wrong_...to see the usually steadfast inspector reduced to such a quivering state. She moved over towards him and bent down to help him stand. "Let's get you out of the cold. Come on, up," she coaxed, gripping at his bicep.

"What are you doing? W-Where are you taking me?" he asked as he shakily rose to his feet. His body felt incredibly tired and sore, and it pained him to walk as the woman at his side guided him toward the iron door.

"I've run a bath for you upstairs. It will help with the soreness," she told him.

It took several minutes for them to reach the top of the stairs; the inspector had stumbled a few times, and Gwen had to pause until he had righted himself. It took another couple of minutes to lead him up the second set of stairs leading to the second floor.

Finally, when he thought his tender muscles could take no more abuse, they reached the top landing and Gwen led him into the bathroom. After spending the night in what felt like a freezer, Aberline was grateful for the warmth emanating from the small room. His hunched frame stood there for a moment, taking it all in.

Gwen mistook his stillness for hesitation. "Do you need help getting out of your clothes?" she asked.

Aberline looked to her, and then quickly averted his eyes. "No."

Gwen only nodded, relieved that she would not have to degrade the poor man any further. "I have left fresh clothes on the hamper. Just put what you're wearing into a pile somewhere and I'll take care of it."

Aberline slowly nodded, still not looking at her, and Gwen took that as her cue to leave. As the inspector bathed, she went down to the cellar to gather up the clothes that had come off in the night. She recovered strips of his white shirt and tie, and next to that she found what remained of his black suit vest. As she picked up the ruined vest, she found a silver pocketwatch and chain underneath it. Her fingers ran over the watch's smooth surface as she plucked it from the floor and placed it in the pocket of her nightdress, before moving on to collect his tan overcoat and shoes. The overcoat was still damp and muddied from the rain the night before and had several tears along the shoulder seams, but otherwise seemed salvageable. His shoes, on the other hand, had not fared so well; the fastenings had been ripped, rendering them useless, and the seams had busted open. There was no way he would be leaving the shop in these; he would have to wear a pair of Ben's.

With the bundle of clothes in her arms, and the candle in her hand, she left the cellar and ascended the stairs. She placed the bundle on one of the counters and folded up the tan overcoat, placing it next to where she had put the inspector's hat the night before. She looked over the rest of the scraps she had collected, noting the horrid condition of the vest. It was a shame, really; she thought he had worn the vest rather fittingly. Tisking, she took to readying the shop for the day.

* * *

As she finished sweeping the floor behind the display counters at the front window, she heard the creaking of the parlor room steps. Surely the inspector couldn't be done bathing already? It had not even been twenty minutes since she had left him. Depositing the broom next to the front door, she walked over to the parlor room entrance in time to see Aberline coming down the stairs. His hair was damp and unkempt, and he was wearing the clothes she had put out for him. Noticing her, he paused on the bottom step. She gave him what she hoped was a warm smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

He eyed her warily. "I'm leaving."

Gwen's faux smile turned into a frown. "What? No, you mustn't. You're exhausted and need to rest. Please, you can use my bed." She moved to lead him back up the stairs, but he raised a hand to stop her.

"Miss Conliffe, I am not staying here a moment longer. I am going to my home and changing into my _own_ clothes, and then I am going to work," he said firmly, brushing past her and walking out into the shop.

Gwen folded her arms and followed behind. "Inspector, I don't think that's such a good idea. If you show up to work, your colleagues are sure to notice something is amiss. You...well, quite frankly you look like death," she said, studying the dark circles under his eyes. They had grown very prominent, and his skin held a sickly pallor that accentuated his cheekbones, making him appear malnourished.

He whirled on her, cold anger in his dark blue eyes. "And what would you have me do? Take sick leave? I've already missed four days this past month. They will notice more if I am absent than they will if I am present and looking a bit sickly."

"'A bit'? You look positively ravaged!" exclaimed Gwen. "Let me call for an errand boy and have him tell your superiors that you are feeling unwell and will be into work later than usual. Please, just stay in bed for a few hours, at least. It's not good for you to—"

"Nothing is good for me anymore! Don't you understand that?" he snarled, making her flinch back as he moved towards her. For a frightening moment, she thought he was going to grab her—to hurt her. He must have seen the fear on her face, because as soon as it appeared, the anger was gone from his demeanor, replaced with the resigned one he had possessed before. He took in a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly. "Miss Conliffe... I am a cursed man. Damned, even. You must understand, if they even have the slightest suspicion..." He shook his head gravely. "They know of my injury. They know I have been out of sorts this past month. They are members of the Yard, Miss Conliffe—they can put two and two together. They'll crucify me for what I am if they ever find out." Aberline's eyes shifted to look somewhere behind her, and she followed his gaze to the tan coat and hat on the table. She moved over and retrieved them for him.

"You'll need shoes. I'm afraid your old ones have been ruined," she told him, disappearing into the parlor room. When she returned with a pair of shoes in hand, the inspector was already wearing his coat and placing his hat on his head. She held out the shoes for him, which he eyed before taking and slipping them onto his feet. As he looked up from the brown leather, he was met with a steaming cup of tea. He raised his eyes to Gwen, who shrugged. "It's Jasmine tea," she explained. "It helps calm the nerves. If you refuse to rest properly, you can at least do me a small service and drink it on your way home."

Aberline lowered his eyes back to the cup in her hand, which he took with a bit of reluctance. He raised it to his lips, breathing in the lovely scent through his nostrils, before taking a short sip. It was like nectar to his parched tongue and warmed his body as it traveled down to his empty stomach. For a scant few seconds, he almost felt at peace—the pains from earlier melting away. But then he remembered where he was, and the circumstances as to why he was there, and he suddenly felt cold again.

"I'll be leaving now," he said brusquely, turning to the door and using his free hand to open it. The little bell above rang as he did so.

"Be careful," Gwen called behind him, making him pause. Then, without looking back, he exited the shop and walked down the sidewalk until he was out of sight.

* * *

 **A little info on Aberline: I know that in real life his name is spelled "Abberline", but in the movie it is spelled with only one 'b', and since I am clearly basing him off the movie's version, I'm keeping it that way. Also, I'm messing around with his age and marital status a bit. He is supposed to be roughly about 50 years old in 1892 (which is the year this story is taking place). I am changing his age to 42 for reasons. Also, at this point in time he was married to his second wife, but again, I have chosen to keep him a widower, so sorry to all you history buffs for not staying faithful! Again, reviews are a big motivator, and they also let me know if people are interested, along with helping me figure out what I'm doing wrong, what I'm doing right, and what I can improve upon. But I still give thanks to those who are reading this story, but do not wish to review. I still love you. :)**


	4. Peculiar

Aberline had made it home just before the early London risers began filing out onto the cobblestone streets. Back in his house, it was almost as if he'd never left. Everything was as it should be, and if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that last night had all been just an awful dream.

But he was too tired to try.

Dragging his feet, he went to his room and shed his coat and borrowed clothes before dressing in his usual work attire. Looking down at the dirtied and ripped tan coat with a frown, he went to his closet and removed a black wool one, which he quickly shrugged on over his jacket. He gathered up the items he had dropped on the floor and tossed them unceremoniously onto the bed; he would deal with them later.

Grabbing his black bowler hat and tucking it under his arm, he left his room and made a pass at his bathroom, knowing full well how ghastly he must have looked. There would be no time for his usual morning ablutions; one glance at the wall clock alerted him that he was already running late for work. Without pausing, he plucked his tan leather gloves from atop the coffee table and slipped them on as he left out his front door. Once he made sure it was locked, he descended the stone steps of his house. As his foot touched the sidewalk, he ran a gloved hand through his still slightly damp hair before placing on his hat.

Several people had greeted him in passing as he walked the route to Scotland Yard, but he ignored them, his thoughts only on work. He knew today was going to be a rough one, full of lies and half-truths. Was that going to be his life from now on? He was an inspector of Scotland Yard—an upholder of truth and justice! Now, he had become what he had been fighting against since he started his career in law enforcement: a monster of the most heinous sort.

The biting February air chilled him to the bone, reminding him again of the many aches throughout his body. As he pulled his coat tighter around him, he yearned to be back in the hot bath. Or in a warm bed. But no, he had to keep up appearances. And like it or not, he was going in to work today.

He reached the London Metropolitan Police Headquarters in minutes, and as soon as he stepped through its front doors he knew that against his best wishes today was not going to be a quiet one. Inside, officers were speaking in loud tones to one another, with others running around carrying papers to and fro. Amidst all the commotion he spotted Hopkins, who was talking animatedly to a young officer. He waited, watching their exchange until Hopkins was alone before walking over to him.

The younger man saw him approach and turned to face him, his eyes widening when he took in his superior's features. "Where the devil have you been? We sent two officers to your home to fetch you early this morning, but you never came to the door. And, good heavens! What's happened to you? You look like you've been put through the ringer."

Aberline glared at the young officer before replying. "It was a...very rough night last night. I must have been passed out when they came for me." That, at least, had not been a complete lie.

Hopkins' curious demeanor changed to one of concern. "Are you still feeling ill? Maybe you should return home, then. Some bed rest might do you good."

Aberline shook his head and looked around the bustling lobby. "No, I am needed here. What's happened?"

"There was a murder last night. Some old bum in an alley," reported Hopkins.

Aberline's blood ran cold as he felt his stomach tighten. He quickly regained his composure before the other man could take notice. "A bum? That is hardly unusual in London." He turned to go to the lift, and Hopkins followed.

"Normally no one would care much for having some of the city's filth cleaned up, but what's got everyone running around, tails tucked between their legs, is the _way_ he died," Hopkins said as he walked beside Aberline.

Aberline kept staring ahead, feigning stoicism, but his curiosity was piqued. Also, the other man's use of the popular idiom was not lost on him. "And how exactly did he die?" he asked as they reached the lift. He pulled back the gate to allow them entry. Once they were inside, he closed the gate and pulled the lever for the third floor. The small space shuddered and began to rise slowly.

Hopkins leaned in close. "Bloke was ripped to pieces. His body was covering the entire alleyway, they say. It's almost like..." he trailed off.

Aberline glanced sideways at him, narrowing his eyes. "Like what?"

"Like the Talbot case. You don't suppose that..?"

"No. Lawrence Talbot is dead. I was there when it happened," Aberline said, looking forward again as the lift came to a stop. He opened the gate and both men exited and walked to his office. Inside, their conversation continued.

"They're trying to keep this under wraps," said Hopkins. Aberline removed his coat and hat, hanging them up on pegs attached to the wall next to the door as he pondered what Hopkins had said. Keeping this quiet was certainly understandable; with the killer dead, it would cause even more panic if a murder of the same caliber occurred only two months— _exactly_ two months—after the last incident in the streets of London. No, the public could not know of this. Not at least until the murderer had been apprehended by police.

"There was only one casualty last night?" Aberline asked, sitting down at his desk.

"Yes, sir. Only the bum was found. But from what I've been hearing, that was more than enough."

Aberline looked down at his desk in thought. So it was an isolated incident. No talk of ferocious beasts or multiple victims. So far, the murder seemed intelligent; the work of a man. But he also took into consideration of the heavy rain last night. Hardly any people had been out, leaving few victims to choose from.

"At what time did the death occur?"

"We're not sure, but the reports say sometime between midnight and three o'clock this morning," reported Hopkins.

Now, the moment of truth. "And where did the murder take place?"

"The alley between Oxford and Mattis, sir."

Once again, stillness overtook his body. So it had been the same beggar he had encountered in the alley the night before. Now he was dead, only hours after—apparently ripped to pieces by some unknown being.

Suddenly he felt claustrophobic, like the room was closing in on him. He clenched his hands into fists on the desk.

"Sir? Are you sure you're feeling well enough to work?" he heard Hopkins say.

Slowly, Aberline unclenched his hands and brought one to his temple. "Yes...I'm just thinking. It's all very peculiar, isn't it?"

Hopkins nodded in agreement. "It certainly is. Do you suppose it could be a copycat trying to recreate the Talbot case? Or possibly even the Ripper murders?"

"It would seem that way," Aberline replied absently, still processing the information. He honestly had no idea what to make of things. Months ago he would have said yes to a copycat in a heartbeat. Hell, it may even be the Ripper himself. The case was still unsolved. But, while the Ripper murders were gruesome in their own right, no man could create the horrors that the beast was capable of. Also, the victim didn't fit the profile of the others, and this was in a completely different area of the city. Perhaps a change in M.O.? He doubted it. But as it stood now, his perceptions of things had shifted, opening his mind up to whole new possibilities. If such a thing as wolfmen existed, who was to say unicorns, witches, or even leprechauns didn't as well? While he highly doubted a leprechaun was the culprit, he found that he could not fully discredit it. And he hated it. He hated the doubt he now held, whereas before he had been so sure of everything. He wanted so desperately to return to a world where fantasy was only found in the pages of books, and not stalking the streets of London and the forests of Blackmoor.

The silence in the room stretched, growing uncomfortable. Finally, the inspector looked up to Hopkins and said, "Come to me if you've any new information."

Hopkins understood that as a dismissal and nodded. "Yes, sir." He turned and left the room, leaving Aberline alone, where he continued to turn over his thoughts. He did little of anything else for at least a half hour, before he gave up trying to make sense of everything. His thoughts were muddled from lack of sleep, and he needed a sharp mind if he was going to be of any help to the case, which he was sure Commissioner Bradford would assign to him soon enough. But there was one thought that kept coming back to him, and it was that he was somehow related to the bum's death. It was one that disturbed him greatly, and he was more than content to submerge it as he leaned back in his leather chair and let his eyes flutter closed. His sleep-deprived body was begging him for reprieve, and he was willing to give it some. He let his chin fall against the front of his vest and drifted off.

* * *

 _In his dream he was running. He was not sure why he was running, nor did he really care. People and buildings flashed by at his sides, but he paid them no mind. He was focused on only one thing._

 _Suddenly he was no longer in the London streets, but in an alleyway. At the other end he could see a dark figure huddled against the brick wall. His body stalled for a moment, tensing, before he rushed towards the sitting man. A fierce growl sounded, coming from his own throat as he reached out with inhuman hands and gripped the man by his shoulders, pulling him up. The man remained limp as a rag doll, his head lolling to the side and revealing the skin of his neck. He focused on the pulse under the man's throat, and was consumed by a primal need to feed. Before he knew what was happening, he could feel the warm splash of blood on the front of his face, dripping down in crimson lines between his teeth and onto his chin. There was no other sound in the alley except for the animalistic snarls and the beating of the beggar's hand against the wall behind him._

 _Beat, beat, beat..._

* * *

Knock, knock, knock...

The inspector awoke with a start, nearly knocking over the lamp on his desk as he flung his arm out. He jerked back upright in his chair and brought his hand to his heaving chest. His eyes darted first to the lamp, and then to his coat hanging up next to the door, and never had he felt so relieved to be in his office.

"Inspector?" came Hopkins' muffled call, and his eyes snapped to the door.

Taking in a deep breath, Aberline straightened up in his chair and smoothed the wrinkles of his shirt and vest with his hands. Once the frantic beating of his heart slowed, he responded, "Come in." The door opened and Hopkins entered, shutting it behind him. He walked over to his desk and placed a manila folder down in front of him. Aberline eyed it before looking up questioningly at the other man. "What is this?" he asked, sliding the folder towards him and opening it. Inside were several grainy photographs.

"Pictures taken of the crime scene. I must warn you, they are rather gruesome," said Hopkins.

Aberline looked at the first picture, recognizing the alley immediately. The only difference was the carnage that covered it. In the photograph, the beggar's body remained mostly intact; his head was tilted to the side at an odd angle, as if asleep. The front of his tattered jacket had been ripped open and was coated with viscera. Although the picture was of poor quality, Aberline could make out a piece of intestine hanging out of the victim's abdomen.

He brought a hand to his mouth before continuing on to the next picture. This shot was a close up of some sort of organ laying next to the man—the liver, it looked like. It was hard to tell, for half of it appeared to be missing. Several more photographs were close up shots of organs and other offal that had been strewn about. It was the final picture that nearly did him in. This one was a close up of the other side of the man's body, and he understood why his position in the first photo had looked so odd: the throat had almost been ripped completely out. The neck bone was visible, and he could see that it had been snapped. Only a thread of skin kept the head connected to the rest of the body.

He set the folder down and rubbed at his forehead. "Good God..." he muttered.

"If it is a copycat, they are doing one hell of a job, I'd say," said Hopkins, grimacing as he glanced at the photos.

Aberline ignored his comment. "Where is the body now? Have they cleaned the alley?"

"It was taken to the Holborn Mortuary upon discovery. And yes, they cleaned the alley before anyone could stick their noses in."

Aberline nodded. "Have they come up with a murder weapon?"

"Teeth," Hopkins said grimly. "And claws."

* * *

Aberline was currently sitting on a bench overlooking the large lake of St. James's Park. He had spent most of the morning making his rounds and questioning police officers who had been present at the crime scene. Most every one of them reported the exact same thing as the others: that the murder had been horrific. Several officers even alluded to the Wolfman attack months before. Aberline had attempted to assuage their fears of another wolf creature in London, but his assurances were half-hearted at best. There was indeed another Wolfman in London, and, unbeknownst to the constables, they were talking to it.

By noon, his rounds had brought him near the park, where he now sat. In his lap, wrapped in paper, was a hot meal of battered fish and fried potato slices that he had bought from a vendor. Every few minutes he would pick at the usually tasty meal, but despite his hunger he just couldn't bring himself to enjoy it. The battered cod smelled particularly strong, and he avoided it as he picked up a chip of potato and stuffed it into his mouth. He stared out at the water tiredly, the small ripples created by the ducks lulling his body into a relaxed state. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he was due back to work in thirty minutes and could not risk taking a nap. Shifting slightly to keep himself awake, he reached down and ate another chip.

Suddenly he heard a low growling noise from his left, and turned in that direction. About twenty feet away he spotted a familiar old woman and her Scottish Terrier walking towards him. The woman was smiling serenely at him, while her terrier looked as if it wanted to eat his shoes.

"Oh! Hello, Inspector! Such a lovely day today, after all the rain last night, wouldn't you agree?" the woman said brightly, tugging at her terrier's leash as she continued walking towards him. "Come now, Leo, it's only the inspector!' she chided the small dog, which continued to pull at its leash and growl.

Aberline eyed it warily for a moment, before turning his attention to the woman standing in front of him. He forced a smile and brought a hand to the brim of his hat in a polite greeting. "Mrs. Kipper. And yes...I suppose it is."

"I bet you're glad to be back in London after your visit to the Moors. Ghastly place. Don't know why anyone'd want to live there." She shook her head distastefully. "I read about your injury in the papers, you poor thing! I do hope you are faring better."

"I'm managing just fine, thank you," he said, a bit too quickly. Mrs. Kipper's Scottie started barking, causing him to wince. He turned his head away and brought up his hand to rub at his ear.

"Oh hush, you!" she chastised sharply, jerking on the leash and silencing the dog's shrill yaps. It went back to glaring at Aberline distrustfully and growled. Mrs. Kipper looked back to him. "I'm so sorry, Inspector. I've no idea what's gotten into him! He's usually so well behaved around people. It's other dogs I have to worry about," she said with a smile.

Suddenly what was left of his appetite had been lost. "I'm sorry Mrs. Kipper, I have to go. I am...needed back at the station," he said, gathering up his now-cold food and rising swiftly to his feet. The action made the small dog jump back in alarm, before it started barking with renewed vigor after his retreating form.

"Oh, all right! It was nice talking to you, Inspector!" he heard her call after him. He waved back at her before continuing on, eager to get away from the incessant yapping.

* * *

He arrived home late in the evening, absolutely exhausted. The first thing he did after stepping through the door was kick off his shoes and toss his coat and hat onto the couch, before heading to his room. Once there, he collapsed onto his bed, still dressed in his clothes. That night he was granted a small mercy, and no dreams plagued his sleep.

* * *

 **Poor Aberline! He can't even enjoy fish n' chips! But look, plot! I hope this holds your interest until I upload the next chapter. Drop a review to tell me what you think of this new turn of events. Or PM me. I can't get enough of one-on-one with readers of this story! Good day to you all. :)**


	5. Decisions

Aberline awoke sometime after eight o'clock that Sunday morning, finding himself laying crossways on his bed. He rolled over and sat up slowly, realizing that he was still dressed in his clothes. At first he was confused as to why, but then he remembered how tired he had been coming home the evening before. He stood up and stretched, feeling his back pop in several places as he did so, and went to his closet and put on some fresh clothes.

As he was placing his old clothes in the hamper, he spotted his ripped overcoat and the clothes Miss Conliffe had given him still sitting on the bed. He knew he really should return them but, truth be told, Miss Conliffe was the last person he wanted to see that day—or any other day for that matter.

He frowned as he picked up his coat to examine it. It felt a bit heavy, and he searched its pockets and found the porcelain teacup Miss Conliffe had insisted he take. He turned it over in his hand, casually admiring the oriental design printed on the smooth ceramic, before setting it down atop his dresser where he wouldn't forget it. When he found it suitable, he would return it along with the clothing. But for now, he was going to wash up. Today was the one day of the week he had off from work—something for which he was immensely grateful. He had made no real plans for the day, but he figured that going out and getting some fresh air would do him some good.

Once in the bathroom, he took a wet rag and a bar of soap and began rinsing his face. When he lowered the rag, he studied his reflection in the mirror closely; there were shadows under his eyes, and he looked as if he had aged ten years. He had always looked a bit older than his actual age; the stress of being a London police officer was great, and even greater for him than most. Contrary to how beat up he looked, he felt well-rested, and soon he was leaving his house and walking down the crowded London sidewalks. It must have rained during the night, because there was ice and brown slush in some places on the pavement. In the distance he heard the Westminster Bells chime, signaling the commencement of Sunday Mass. Frederick Aberline was by no means an avid churchgoer, but that did not necessarily mean that he did not fear God to some extent. So when his walk brought him to the doors of his local church, he went in.

The choir was currently in the middle of their opening song when he entered the large cavernous room with beautiful stained glass windows. The pews had already been filled, so he opted to stand in the back next to a pillar. He hadn't been to a church service in over a decade, and the people in the congregation seemed to know this. Several of them noticed him standing in the back and gave him curious looks, for what would the Scotland Yard Inspector be doing at Mass?

He shrank inwards from their suspicious stares, seriously beginning to regret his decision in coming here. The singing of the choir did little to ease the turmoil in his soul; it had quite the opposite effect, actually. As they sang hymns about saints and the divine, it only served to make him feel even more of an outcast—like his very presence here was an offense to God. Bowing his head, he left out the front doors hastily.

He felt lost as he followed the flow of people on the sidewalk, more so than he ever had before. The only time he had come close to experiencing something akin to this feeling of alienation was during the weeks after the death of his wife more than twelve years ago. At the time, he could imagine no future without his beloved, and had seriously considered leaving the force. If not for his mother's urgings, he would have. And looking back, he was grateful for her encouragement, for he could never see himself anywhere but in law enforcement. But with the drastic turn of events, he wasn't exactly sure of what to do, or where he should go from here. If he truly was cursed to become a beast every month for the rest of his life, then London was not the idealistic place to be. He was a danger to everyone around him if he stayed. Perhaps he could resign and move out to the country, somewhere far away where he could never bring harm to anyone. It would be a lonely existence, but a necessary one. But if he were to leave, would he be able to visit his sister and brother one last time? He would never be able to tell them of the curse. As much as he knew they loved him, he also knew that to admit such a thing would land him a spot in an asylum. He could not bear to hurt his family in such a way, and he certainly could not be held in an asylum with his condition—he knew how well that had worked out for Lawrence Talbot.

No… He could never see them again. Maybe he could write to them occasionally, but even that would be too risky. By doing so, he would be opening a link between them. They would want to know where he was and why he had left without visiting, and he definitely could not risk them coming to see him. The very thought made his heart palpitate with anxiety, and he swiftly banished it. His options were grim no matter what he decided on. Sure, he could choose to remain an inspector at Scotland Yard, but for how long could he keep up the charade? Someone was bound to notice his monthly disappearances, or at least how worn out he looked coming in to work every few weeks.

He ducked into a small alcove of a building and leaned against the brick, looking at people as they walked past him, blissfully unaware of the threat he posed. Could they see a difference in him? Had the curse given any sort of outward indication that people could somehow sense? Some inborn instinct that told them, _"Something's not right about that one. Stay away."_ If a dog could see him for what he truly was, then he imagined so could people. So far, the only looks he received from passersby were ones of greeting, but for the most part he was ignored altogether.

He brought his hands up to view them. Through the tan leather, he could feel the chill of the outside air. He flexed his fingers experimentally; they felt normal. But they hadn't been two nights ago. He remembered, vividly, how they had changed—contorted into grotesque, claw-like appendages before his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he could not fathom how an ordinary man could undergo such a gruesome metamorphosis. Was the monster lurking somewhere just underneath his skin? If he peeled back his flesh, would he find fur? He lowered his now-trembling hands in disgust, placing them in the pockets of his coat.

That reminded him—he still needed to buy a new one.

* * *

He exited the shop carrying several bags that contained a brand new overcoat, a couple of vests and shirts, a pair of black trousers, and a new pair of shoes. He had traveled a ways away from his home, and he did not feel like lugging the bags all the way to his house. He started to signal for a cab, when he heard someone call his name.

"Ah, Inspector Aberline! Fancy seeing you here."

He turned to see Constable Swanson strolling towards him. The two were not particularly good friends, but Aberline had worked with Swanson in the past, and often chatted with the young constable while he was on his beat.

"Yes, just doing a bit of Sunday shopping," he told the other man, giving him a tight smile.

"Enjoying your day off? I'm surprised they're not putting you to work on that new case," said Swanson.

"You know about that?" Aberline asked. He was unsure of how far news of the murder had spread. Word traveled fast in police circles, so he was not surprised in the least.

"I do, indeed. Horrible thing. So, you have been assigned it, then?" he asked.

"No. I haven't gotten word from anyone about it. I suspect I'll be given it come Monday morning."

Constable Swanson shook his head. "What has this world come to? It seems all the loonies are comin' out. First Jack, then this 'Wolfman'. Now a bum, found tore to pieces in an alley. These certainly are troubling times. I do not envy your position, Inspector."

"Yes, well, the job has to be done," Aberline murmured, glancing away. He could not deny that the case was a perplexing one, and he still felt that he was involved in it somehow. If he left London, he would possibly never uncover the truth behind it. Perhaps it was just a lunatic, and nothing more. But he would never know unless he pursued the case, and to do that, he would have to stick it out a bit longer in the city.

"Well, I'm glad that if there's anyone to put things right in this city, it's you. I've heard the way other officers talk about you down at the station. You truly are an inspiration to us, no doubt about that," said Swanson, offering Aberline an appreciative smile.

Aberline did not know what to say. The constable's words filled him with pride, but at the same time, he did not feel that the praise was fully deserved. Throughout his years as a police officer, Aberline had seen a great many things, and had been assigned many cases. But unfortunately, he felt he was unable to reach his full potential as he was often barred by his superiors from pursuing his cases to the fullest extent. It was the only complaint he had about his line of work.

"Thank you, Constable. I really needed that this morning, truly," said Aberline at last, returning a small smile.

"Aw, well I'm glad I could brighten your day on this otherwise drab morning. I am sure that whatever it is you're going through, you'll find a way to come out on top. Of that, I have no doubt," Swanson said with a kind smirk. He then pulled out his watch and glanced at the time, before swiftly pocketing it again. "Well I should probably return to my patrol; Sergeant will have my head if I'm late again. Good day to you, Inspector." And with that, Swanson tipped his helmet and walked away.

After watching the bobby leave, Aberline hailed a cab and climbed in, setting his bags down on the seat next to him. He leaned back, looking out the window as the carriage rumbled down the cobblestone street. All the way home, he thought of nothing but the constable's words, and any doubts he had about staying had melted away. It was decided: he would pursue the case, and only after it was solved would he consider a permanent move. Until then, he would be resigned to having himself locked up in the cellar of Miss Conliffe's antique shop. Constable Swanson was right. He _could_ do this.

* * *

" _A bobby?_ " questioned Aberline, absolutely dumbfounded.

Commissioner Bradford sighed. The inspector had come into his office early that Monday, interrupting his morning reading to ask about who was being assigned the bum case. "I thought it best that we keep this whole thing quiet. Had I given it to any high ranking officer, such as yourself," the Commissioner said pointedly, "it would draw unwanted attention from the public. That is the last thing we need right now."

"I understand that, sir. But a bobby? What's he going to do? A bobby is not capable enough to handle a murder investigation."

"It's only a bum, Aberline, not the Prince of Wales," the Commissioner chastised.

"Perhaps, but...don't you think the circumstances around the murder are highly unusual? It just doesn't sit well, least of all with the incident that happened months ago."

Commissioner Bradford's cold eyes bore into his, and his walrus-like mustache twitched in agitation. "This has nothing in common with that at all."

Aberline sputtered. "Nothing at all? Other than the animalistic wounds and overall savagery of the attack, you mean to say."

The Commissioner bristled at this, leaning forward. "You are treading on thin ice, Aberline," he told him, his voice raised in warning. "Now, I understand that you were greatly invested in the Talbot case..."

Aberline frowned. He knew where the older man was going with this, and it infuriated him to no end.

"Perhaps...a bit _too_ invested. And no doubt, a man who had witnessed the horrors committed by that lunatic firsthand might be suffering from some sort of mental exhaustion."

"You're saying I'm losing my mind," stated Aberline, the creases in his forehead deepening.

"You misunderstand me," said the Commissioner, folding his hands atop his oak desk. "All I am saying is that I think you require a change of venue—perhaps less street work and more desk work. You can be of help to the case while also eliminating the burden of detective work."

Aberline felt a low rumbling deep in his throat, but quickly stifled it before it could manifest itself into a full-blown growl. The last thing he wanted was more desk duty. "Sir, I thank you for your concern, but really, I am fit enough to pursue this case. And if it is, as you say, a small matter, then there is no harm in assigning it to me. Bobbies are here to stop petty crimes—not deal with homicides."

Commissioner Bradford narrowed his eyes, his thick grey eyebrows making him appear all the more like an overbearing grandfather. "My decision on the matter has already been made, and there will be no changing it. If anything more comes of this, I will...consider your proposal. But until then, I think it would be best for you to remain here."

Aberline stared at the older man a moment longer, before rising from the padded chair. "I understand, sir, and appreciate your consideration," he said tonelessly.

"You are most welcome. Have a good day, Inspector," replied the Commissioner, who had already gone back to reading his book, no longer even looking at Aberline.

Silently fuming, Aberline turned and exited the office, making sure to shut the door a bit louder than necessary. It was childish, he knew, but it was preferable to what he really wanted to do, and was less likely to get him sacked.

As he made his way down to where his office was located at the other end of the hall, he spotted Hopkins eyeing him from next to his door.

"So, have we got the case?" the younger man asked eagerly when the inspector approached.

"No."

Hopkins' face fell instantly. "Really?"

Aberline opened the door and motioned for him to come inside. When they were both in his office, he shut the door and turned to the other man. "The Commissioner thinks me unfit to handle the case. He's assigned it to a constable over in E Division."

" _What?_ "

It was no little known fact that E Division, which encompassed the district of Holborn, was the least competent of all the divisions. They had the fewest number of officers, most of whom would easily look the other way if their pockets had been filled. The occupants of the district were little to be desired as well, many being Irish immigrants and a wide array of criminal offenders.

"That's bloody ridiculous!" continued Hopkins irately. "I'd feel less insulted if it had been given to a detective—hell, even a sergeant! But a bloomin' bobby?" Hopkins shook his head.

Despite the seriousness of his conversation with the Commissioner, Aberline could not help but to smile at the young officer's enthusiasm. It was not unlike his own when he was that age, and even on occasion now.

"I know. I'm upset about it as well. But it seems Bradford's made up his mind."

"What's left of it, anyways," muttered Hopkins, shaking his head at the floor again. He looked back up to the inspector. "I'm sorry, sir. I knew you had your heart set on this case."

"It's all right, George. Really," Aberline assured, sitting down in his chair. It really wasn't all right. It had been downright humiliating to have the case handed to someone much less capable than himself, and even more to be dismissed in the manner he had been. He and the Commissioner had always had a rather tumultuous past, but he hadn't expected to be glossed over so casually.

Suddenly, Hopkins snapped his fingers, a look of excitement on his face. "I know! How about tonight, we go to a pub and have a few drinks? I know it's nothing to celebrate, but why not ease the sting a bit?" he said, giving Aberline a cheeky grin.

Aberline raised an eyebrow at the unusual proposition. He wasn't much of a drinker—his first experience at a London tavern had been a disaster. Deciding against the idea, he started to shake his head. "I don't think—"

"C'mon! I know these past few weeks have been a bit stressful, and this bloody weather isn't helping things. I say we go out tonight and forget about our troubles for a couple of hours."

Aberline had to admit that the idea of getting piss drunk did hold some appeal. He had plenty of troubles he wished to forget. And perhaps, under the pretenses of going to a pub, he could gather some information. Most pubs in Holborn were full of loudmouth drunkards; maybe someone knew something about the attack. He may not have been assigned the case, but by God that would not stop him from doing a bit of his own detective work!

"I suppose we could go for a few drinks," he said.

Hopkins' smile returned fully. "That's the spirit! Any particular place you've got in mind?"

Aberline thought for a moment of the names of pubs in Holborn. "Hmm...how does the Andover Arms sound? Nine o' clock?"

Hopkins looked at him skeptically.

"What?" asked Aberline.

The other man gave him an innocent shrug. "Nothing, sir. I just find it a bit funny you should pick a tavern within a couple blocks of the crime scene."

Aberline inclined his head, impressed. "How very astute of you. We'll make an Inspector of you yet."

"Maybe someday I'll even replace you as Chief Inspector," Hopkins beamed.

Aberline brought a hand to his head and sighed. "Don't push it."

* * *

 **I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in myself for not being able to post this chapter yesterday night during the eclipse! Shame on me :( Speaking of, did any of you guys get to see it? I saw some of it, but it was cloudy that night. There was a sliver of it left and it was starting to turn orange at the edges before clouds rolled in. It begs the question of how a lunar eclipse would affect a werewolf... Now that could be interesting.**

 **But the moon appeared practically full tonight when I saw it. It also held a yellow tint to it that was quite beautiful. So I guess my timing is still pretty good, even if it is a day off!**

 **Aberline at a pub. Seems like familiar territory. But one really shouldn't drink when they are depressed. Let's just hope the inspector doesn't overdo it.**


	6. The Promise

Aberline waited patiently outside the entrance to The Andover Arms. He had arrived only minutes earlier, and already he had witnessed several drunken men entering the small tavern. _Entering_ , not leaving, he noted. In the East End, it was not uncommon for men—notably of lower social standing—to wander from bar to bar after being kicked out by the owners for either being too rowdy or unable to pay for their drinks.

After watching yet another group of men stumble through the doors, he turned his attention to the street, hoping to spot a carriage coming. Hopkins was running late, and Aberline was eager to be inside and out of the harsh February cold. He reached into the pocket of his brown vest with the intent of retrieving his watch, but found it was empty. He had forgotten the watch was missing, something he discovered earlier that day. It must still be at Miss Conliffe's shop—yet another reason to go back and visit her.

With a sigh, he removed his hand from his pocket and looked up at the moon, which was gradually disappearing with each passing night. _Good riddance,_ he thought as he glared at it resentfully. He lowered his eyes to the street when he heard the clopping of horse hooves, and saw a carriage rounding the corner.

The driver stopped it in front of the tavern, and a moment later Hopkins emerged from it. Aberline was surprised to see a woman step out after him. The woman was dressed in the manner of a person attending the theater, rather than a lowly pub. Her blonde hair was done up stylishly in a grey ribbon, and she wore bright red lipstick which stood out on her powdered face. An elegant set of emerald jewels hung down from her ears, and a matching necklace adorned her neck. The dress she wore was, like the earrings and necklace, elegant, but certainly impractical for the occasion; it was a soft shade of green with long sleeves and ruffled skirts that reached all the way to the ground. To Aberline, she looked very much like a china doll.

After making his brief assessment of the woman, he eyed Hopkins, and the younger man gave him an apologetic smile.

"I hope you don't mind the added company tonight. Elena wanted to join us. She's never been to a pub before! Can you believe it?" he asked.

"I never would have guessed..." murmured Aberline, before smiling and stepping forward to place a kiss on Elena's hand. "Good evening, Miss..?"

"Oh, do call me Elena," she insisted with a broad smile. Aberline picked up on her Italian accent immediately. It was subdued, possibly indicating that she had spent some time away from her home country.

"Very well, then. Good evening, Elena," he said.

Hopkins stepped closer to Elena, gesturing towards Aberline. "Elena dear, this is Inspector Aberline. We work together at Scotland Yard."

"Ooh, Georgie didn't tell me you were his colleague. Another inspector! How wonderful!" she said delightedly, clasping her gloved hands together in front of her.

Aberline gave her a curt nod. "Well I'm glad you could join us this evening." He glanced to Hopkins, then back to her. "But before we go in, would you mind if I had a quick word with, ah, _Georgie_ for a moment?"

"Oh, go right ahead!" she said, never losing her smile.

"Thank you, Miss." He motioned for Hopkins to follow him and the two moved further down the street, leaving Elena standing at the corner alone. Hopkins looked back to her, a goofy smile plastered on his face as he gave her a little wave, before facing a glaring Aberline.

"What? I couldn't very well tell her no!" he said.

"Why'd you have to tell her at all? This isn't exactly a typical night out at the pub," said Aberline.

"Exactly—it isn't. That's why I thought it'd be a good idea to bring Elena. While the men are distracted by her, they won't very well notice us, now will they?" grinned Hopkins.

"I'll have to agree with you there," mumbled Aberline, sparing a glance at the overdressed Elena, before sighing. "Let's just go. There's nothing to be done about it now, anyway," he said, turning and heading for the pub entrance. As soon as he set foot in the establishment, the aroma of cigar smoke and alcohol assaulted his nostrils. There was so much smoke in the air that it stung at his eyes. The gas-lighting combined with the smoke to create the effect of fog in the crowded tavern.

Squinting through the haze, he found an empty table and moved over to it, followed by Hopkins and Elena. He sat down in one of the wooden chairs and casually glanced around at the other tables. Only being about a quarter past nine, the place hadn't become too rowdy yet—which was just fine by him. His ears were only now beginning to lose their unnatural acuity; either that, or he was just becoming accustomed to it.

Even though the room was filled with chatter, he found that if he focused, he was able to make out conversations taking place from as far as the other side of the room. He heard a man talking to his friend about the stresses of working as a dock laborer. The men at the table next to the dock laborer and his friend were discussing, quite colorfully, how British women compared to Irish women—in _several_ criteria. Aberline scowled, not appreciating what one man in particular had to say on the issue.

"Look at him. Already fast at work," he heard Hopkins say from across the table, breaking his concentration. He looked at him questioningly. Hopkins only smiled in response as he leaned back in his chair, placing a hand on Elena's back.

"What is it you two are working on, exactly? I bet it's exciting," she said, looking between the two men with a conspiratorial smile.

This earned Hopkins another hard look from Aberline. "Is there anything you haven't told her?"

"Relax. I haven't told her anything. Only that we're here partly on business, is all..." Hopkins conceded.

Aberline opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when the barmaid approached their table. She was an older woman with a round face and greying hair that was pulled back into a tight bun. Aberline could see the onset of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, which, despite the dismal venue, showed bright with enthusiasm.

"Welcome to The Andover Arms," she greeted in a thick Cockney accent. "Wot will ya all be havin' this evenin'?"

"We'll have a bottle of your finest wine," said Hopkins. He shot Elena a flirtatious smirk, causing her to let out a girlish snigger.

The barmaid nodded. "And'll that be all for ya tonight, sir?"

"Oh, I think that will be plenty to start with. If I change my mind I'll be sure to let you know," he told her, shooting her a smile.

She gave a curt nod and then turned to Aberline. "And wot will you be havin' tonight, sir?"

"I'll just have a pint of bitter, please," he told her. That was usually his limit when he drank at pubs. Even though it was generally considered a lighter form of alcohol, it still left him feeling a bit buzzed by the time he was finished drinking.

The woman nodded and turned to leave, but Hopkins stopped her. "Actually I think my friend here would like to try some of your Irish whiskey."

Aberline let out a surprised cough. "I believe I said pint of bitter," he said pointedly as he glared at the man across from him.

Hopkins waved his hand. "He'd like both, if you wouldn't mind."

The woman looked between the two men, before shrugging and walking off to prepare their drinks.

Aberline leaned in over the table. "What was that about?"

"You need to loosen up. You're much too tense, and you're suffering because of it. When was the last time you relaxed?" asked Hopkins. When Aberline didn't reply, the other man crossed his arms in smug satisfaction.

Aberline sat back in his chair, crossing his own arms in defeat. He was never going to a pub with Hopkins again, so long as he lived.

Moments later the barmaid returned carrying a tray that had several glasses on it and a bottle of wine. She set the bottle down and began removing the glasses from the tray and setting them down on the table. Two glasses had been placed in front of Aberline, each filled with a dark colored liquid, while two empty glasses were set down in front of Hopkins and Elena.

"Much appreciated, love," thanked Hopkins. The barmaid gave a pleasant 'You're welcome' and left.

Aberline eyed the contents of the glass, before looking at Hopkins. "You're paying for this, you know."

"Of course. As long as you drink it. Trust me, that stuff will help you relax in no time."

"I am relaxed," Aberline deadpanned.

"Sure, sure," Hopkins said, rolling his eyes. He poured the bottle of wine into the two glasses in front of him, before handing one to Elena. The two smiled at each other, silently flirting with their eyes. Aberline looked away, annoyed by the display, and brought the whiskey to his face. He gave it a short sniff, and was surprised by how it smelled. He had been expecting a strong, pungent odor; instead, he detected cinnamon, and traces of honey. He placed it back on the table and picked up the bitter, thinking it best to start out with what he was familiar with. He took one sip from the glass right as the door to the pub opened and three men walked in, laughing hardily and jabbing at one another. Just by looking at them, Aberline could see that they were men of low social class.

One of them had a beard of ginger, giving him away as an Irishman. The other two were harder to read, for both had brunette hair; one had stubble on his face, and the other was clean-shaven. All wore ratty clothing.

The three ambled in and sat two tables down from Aberline and his companions.

"This'll be interesting," Hopkins smirked, bringing his glass to his lips. Aberline glanced at him before going back to looking at the three newcomers. Absently he took another sip from his cup.

"So which one of ya is payin' for this round?" he heard the man with the stubble say to the others.

"Don't look at me, mate. I paid for the last one," said the clean-shaven man, holding up his hands.

"Looks like it's on you, Cormick," the first man said to the Irishman. The ginger-haired man—Cormick, apparently—reached into his pockets and placed several coins on the table and began counting them out.

"Good man!" said the man with the stubble.

Aberline watched as the barmaid approached and took their orders. All three of them ordered gin. When she walked away, they all stared at her backside and let out roars of laughter.

"What a bunch of piss pots," muttered Hopkins.

"Indeed," agreed Aberline, taking another sip.

"Well, if they do know something, we'll have no trouble hearing it."

"Hearing what?" piped Elena, reminding Aberline of her presence at the table.

"Oh, not much, love. Just some street talk. To see what people know," he told her.

"Like...spying?" she asked.

Hopkins took another drink. "Yeah, yeah. Just like that, love."

"Oooh," she crooned.

Aberline went back to ignoring her and Hopkins and listening to the conversation at the other table. He had missed some of what had been said, but currently the three men were discussing some joke they had heard earlier about an Irishman who had died playing poker, and the other players had to draw straws to see who would go and tell the man's wife. Aberline was not impressed by the punchline, but the three men seemed to find it to be the most uproarious thing they had ever heard. Every head turned to their table as they hooted and hollered.

"Is this what most pubs are like in London?" asked Elena, frowning distastefully at the three men.

"Only ones in the East End," said Hopkins. "Just be grateful a fight hasn't broken out."

Aberline went to take another drink, but found that he had already emptied his glass. He set it down and grabbed the whiskey.

"Finally. I was waiting for you to try it out," said Hopkins.

"With those three, I think I need it," muttered Aberline.

"Here, here," said Hopkins, raising his cup in a mock-toast.

Aberline took a swig of the whiskey, once again having his expectations proven wrong. He wasn't quite sure what went into this particular whiskey, but the brew was smooth and round, and had a slightly spicy finish. He took another, larger gulp.

"So, how is it?" asked Hopkins, eyeing the drink in his hand.

Aberline lowered the glass to the table. "Not bad. It's actually quite good."

Hopkins smirked proudly. "See? Perhaps you'll even have another one."

"Perhaps," he said, turning his ear to the other table once again.

"So, have any of ya seen that one bloke? I forget his name. Blankenchip?" said the man with the stubble.

"Blanken _ship_ ," corrected the Irishman.

"Whatever. He hasn't been to the last three games."

"Which bloke?" piped up the clean-shaven man.

"You know which bloke! The one with the beard an' glasses."

"Oh," said the clean-shaven man. "You mean the one who hasn't been to the meetings lately?"

The man with the stubble slapped a hand to his head in frustration. "Yes! That's the one. I've been goin' to Archie's every Monday for the past two years, and not once have I not seen 'im there. What d'you suppose happened to 'im? "

"I dunno. And I don't really care, if I'm bein' honest with ya," replied the clean-shaven man.

"Maybe the Wolfman got ahold of him," said the Irishman— _Cormick_ , Aberline reminded himself for future reference.

"Naw, I heard in the papers they tracked 'im all the way up to Blackmoor and killed 'im," the man with the stubble said, taking a long swig from his glass. "What was his name? Talbot? Larry Talbot? No, that don't sound right…"

"I think it was Lawrence," said Cormick.

"You don't actually believe he was a real wolfman, do ya?" asked the clean-shaven man.

"Beats the hell outta me," said the man with the stubble. "All I know is he was some loony who went around killin' people left an' right on the full moon. People claim it was some kind of monster, but I don't believe a word of it. For all we know, he coulda been wearin' some poor old woman's fur coat!" he guffawed, and the other man joined in.

"No, it was true!" insisted Cormick. The other two silenced their laughter and looked at him skeptically, and he continued on. "I know a bloke who lived in the area where it happened. He heard from a chap who was there that it was an animal. Stood up on its haunches like a man. Said he'd never seen nothin' like it."

The men across from him looked at one another, before they each let out a laugh.

"You know what I think?" said the clean-shaven man when he'd finished. "I think you, and that 'chap', have had a bit too much to drink! Ain't no way it was an actual werewolf. I'd bet money on it."

"I bet that Conliffe woman would know if it was true," said Cormick.

"That's right...she was there, wasn't she? I heard they was lovers, her and that nutter. Also heard she was supposed to have gotten married to his brother, before he snapped and killed 'im." The man suddenly slapped his hand down on the table in revelation. "I'll bet that's what it was! She wouldn't go with 'im, and so he lost it and killed his brother to get rid of the competition. Even went on a rampage, killing a dozen others before the coppers found 'im and locked 'im up in Lambeth."

"Roger, I'm starting to think that _you_ have had a bit too much to drink," commented the clean-shaven man, smirking.

"I heard the whole Talbot clan were bad in the head. Into that occult nonsense," said Cormick.

"Well, if that's the case, and all of 'em liked to run around wearing fur suits, what does that say about the Conliffe woman's taste in men?" asked Roger.

"All I gotta say to that is, if it's a beast that gets her hot an' bothered, then I'd be more than happy to show her mine," snickered the clean-shaven man.

"Watch yourself, mate. You know what it is they say about them crazy birds being wild in the sack," grinned Roger.

"You make it sound even more appealin'!"

All three let out hearty laughs and clinked their drinks together, before taking hefty swigs.

Throughout the entire conversation, Aberline had grown more and more agitated. He had a white-knuckle grip on his now-empty glass, and his jaw was clenched. His cold eyes glared at the three ruffians, who seemed to have no amount of decency whatsoever. Degrading talk about women had always been a raw spot for him, but this...this blatant slandering of Miss Conliffe had struck a nerve. Sure, he had his own misgivings about the woman, but she had a good heart. She was a woman of substance, and even more, a woman of class, and did not deserve to have these heathens speak of her in such a despicable manner.

Hopkins, who had also been listening to the conversation going on at the other table, turned to look at Aberline. He saw the steely grip his superior had on his glass, and the anger in his eyes. Something about the way he was looking at the men unnerved him. "Don't pay them any mind. They're just a bunch of berks who are as thick as two short planks," he said.

Aberline turned to him, letting out a breath of air. "You're right. They're not worth it."

It was then that the barmaid came to their table once more, asking if they wanted more to drink. Hopkins declined the offer with a polite smile, but Aberline surprised him by ordering another whiskey.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Hopkins asked as the barmaid left.

"Not really," said Aberline, leaning back in his chair. Already he was feeling lightheaded, and the floor almost seemed to sway under his feet as if he were on a boat out at sea. When the new drink arrived, he wasted no time in drowning it.

Hopkins eyed his boss, getting the feeling that it was a bad idea in ordering the first whiskey. "Well, I'm not paying for that one," he said, folding his arms.

Aberline grunted from behind the brim of the glass.

"Hey, gov. Don't I know you from somewhere?"

Aberline lowered his drink and looked over to the other table. The man with the stubble, Roger, had been the one to address him.

"I haven't the foggiest," replied Aberline, turning away.

Roger did not give up. "Yeah...yeah, I recognize you from the papers. You're that inspector they put in charge of the Talbot case! You were there when they killed the bloke, weren't ya?" he said, grinning to his mates. "See boys, he can tell us whether this is a load of dung or not." He turned back to Aberline. "So, is it all true then? Was it really a wolfman?"

"Yeah, what happened that night?" asked Cormick.

All eyes were on Aberline, including Hopkins'. He, too, was very curious about the subject. He had no idea what actually happened on that night, and the inspector never talked about it with anyone, so he was just as eager as the other men to hear more about it.

"No," Aberline said at last. "There was no wolfman. Just a man who was very sick, and needed help. That's all it was. And I'd appreciate it if you would drop the matter. Miss Conliffe and I have been through enough."

A beat of silence passed, before Roger turned to Cormick. "Bah! See, I told you it was nothing but old silly superstition," he said, pointing a finger at the Irishman.

"But I heard it was a werewolf that killed all those people over in Lambeth," said Cormick, frowning.

Aberline's eyes remained on the table as he took another swig from his glass. He drained it and lowered it back down to the table. "You were mistaken."

Hopkins could tell his superior wasn't being entirely truthful in his account. It was the way his eyes seemed to darken when he spoke of Lawrence Talbot, and how his voice had taken on a melancholy tone.

"He's said what's needed to be said, so let's all just go back to our business and drop the matter, all right?" said Hopkins.

Roger shrugged. "Whatever you say, gov," he said evenly, going back to his drink.

Both tables kept to themselves the rest of the night. Hopkins and Elena continued to chat and flirt with one another, leaving Aberline to drink alone. He had said no more than a few words and several "mmms' and "uh-huhs", and eventually Hopkins gave up on talking to him. Occasionally he would glance across the table to see his boss silently drinking his whiskey. He wasn't sure what exactly had caused the inspector to become so sullen, but he knew it had something to do with what went on that night in Blackmoor. He would have to look into it more when he got the chance.

* * *

It was half past eleven when Hopkins decided to call it a night. He and Aberline both had to be up early for work the next day, and taking one glance at his boss told him that he was going to need all the sleep he could get. He doled out the correct amount of coins and the three stood from their chairs (Aberline had some trouble with this) and left.

As the trio passed, the Irishman gave a short little wave to Elena. "G'night, love," he said with a cheeky grin, and Elena turned her nose up at him with a soft "Hmph."

Once outside, it did not take long for Hopkins to signal a cab. He helped Elena into the carriage, before turning to Aberline. "You're welcome to join us if you'd like."

Aberline waved him off. "Nah, I'm fine. Just fine."

"Are you sure?" asked Hopkins. "I don't think you're in the best condition to be walking."

"I want to walk. I just...need some fresh air."

Hopkins looked at him for a moment, not wanting to leave the man alone, but also wanting to give him some space. He tried one last time to persuade him to join them, but was denied once again. Reluctantly, he waved goodbye to Aberline, before entering the carriage.

The inspector watched on in a daze as the carriage disappeared around the corner, before he turned and began walking down the sidewalk. In his current state of mind, he figured any direction would take him where he needed to go. But the thing was, he was not entirely sure of where that was, exactly. So, he just kept walking, turning at every few intersections, in the hopes that he would arrive _somewhere_.

Somehow his aimless wandering had taken him to a familiar wooden door with stained glass windows. Without a moment's hesitation, he lifted his fist and began knocking on it. When no one came within thirty seconds—which to him seemed to be an awfully long time to be kept waiting—he tried knocking again. At some point his raps seemed to take on the rhythm of Yankee Doodle.

At last, he saw the inside lights turn on from behind the window curtains, and he halted his knocks. Seconds later, the door in front of him opened to reveal a tired, confused, and disgruntled looking woman in a nightdress. Her knit eyebrows and tight frown relaxed when she saw who had been knocking at her door.

"Inspector? Is something wrong?" she asked, suddenly concerned.

Aberline had been looking down at her feet, and was in the slow process of lifting his eyes to her face. It took several seconds, but he finally managed it. At first Gwen thought he was leering at her, but quickly discarded that notion when she saw the glazed-over look in his blue eyes.

"Oh 'ello, Miss," he greeted, a slight slur accompanying his speech. As he spoke, he swayed slightly on his feet.

Gwen could smell the alcohol on his breath, and frowned. The man was clearly drunk. "What is it you want, Inspector? It's very late," she told him levelly.

Surprise crossed his face. "Issit? I'm terribly sorry, I had no idea." He started looking around, as if searching for something, before turning back to her. "How are you t'night, Miss Conliffe?" he asked.

"I'm...fine. Are you?" she asked.

He stared at her for a moment, before lifting a hand to rub at his face. "I'm not sure. I don't think so." He continued to stand there, cupping his cheek awkwardly. "Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, lowering his hand to dig into his pockets. He came up with nothing, and he checked them again, as if whatever he was looking for was suddenly going to be there now.

Gwen folded her arms and eyed him curiously. "What is it you're looking for?"

The inspector abandoned his search and looked back up to her. "I have your cup. Or...I thought I did. Silly me…must've left it at my house."

"My cup?"

He nodded. "Yes, the cup." He then made a vague motion with his hands, which she assumed was supposed to be representative of the size of the teacup.

"It's...it's all right. You needn't return it," she said.

"But it's yours. You simply must have it!" he stated, a bit too loudly for what was necessary.

"I'm giving it to you. As a gift," she told him. This was a very bizarre encounter—one that she never had expected to have in her lifetime. How many people could say that they had conversed with not only a drunken Scotland Yard Inspector, but a drunken Scotland Yard Inspector who just so happened to also be a werewolf? The ludicrousness of it brought a small smile to her face.

"Really? You're giving me a gift? That's so very kind of you...but I hadn't gotten you anything," he said, suddenly sounding upset.

"You don't need to give me anything. Your company is enough," she assured him, bringing a hand to her lips to hide her growing smile.

"But I haven't got a company," said Aberline, furrowing his brows in confusion.

"No, I didn't mean that. I meant that your _presence_ is enough," she reiterated.

"But I didn't get you any presents!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms out at his sides in exasperation.

Gwen couldn't hold it in any longer. She let out a soft chuckle.

Aberline's face fell. "Don't laugh…" he said dejectedly.

"I'm sorry," Gwen said, trying to quell her little fit. "It's just, you're so silly when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk! Why would you think that? That I'm some sort of drunkard who stumbles around and–and spits and...is horrible and hurts people and..."

Gwen silenced what remained of her giggles and looked at the inspector, who had finished babbling and now looked as if he was about to cry. Suddenly she felt very bad about laughing. She knew that she hadn't been laughing at him, but rather at the way he was acting. But he didn't know that. And now she had seemed to trigger a sore nerve in the inspector.

"Inspector," she began.

"What?" he said, giving a small, sad sniff. In the light that the shop cast on him, Gwen could see the glistening of unshed tears in his eyes.

"I wasn't laughing at you. It's just that, well, you're acting rather odd tonight is all."

He sighed. "I know I'm not myself," he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. "I'm something much worse."

"No," Gwen said with such firmness that the inspector looked up at her. "No," she repeated, "You're not something worse. You're just drunk. You've had too many drinks and now you're getting yourself upset over nothing."

"But it's not nothing!" he cried. "I'm a mons—"

Gwen quickly reached out and placed the tips of her fingers against his lips. "Shhh! Come inside," she hissed, glancing around to make sure there were no people outside. "And please stop shouting."

He reached up and swatted her hand away from his mouth. "No! I'll shout if I damn well please!" he cried indignantly, even going as far as stomping his foot like a spoilt child.

Once again Gwen glanced around nervously. "If you must shout, then please do it inside."

He stared at her silently, and to her surprise, he actually stepped forward to come in. Gwen moved to the side to allow him through, and shut the door behind him and locked it. When she turned to face him, she saw him wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Would you like some tea?" she offered.

He lowered his arm and gave another sad sniff. "Dogs don't drink tea."

 _Oh for heaven's sake..._ Gwen wanted to roll her eyes, but thought better of it. She feared any outward sign of aggression might set him off again. "How about some water, then?"

The inspector thought on this for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"Very good. Why don't you go sit in the parlor while I get it for you?"

"All right..." he said pitifully, before sulking off to the other room, accidentally bumping into a display counter as he went.

Gwen blew out a tired puff of air, before following behind him.

Minutes later, both were seated in the parlor room. Aberline sat hunched over slightly on the small couch, staring deeply into the glass of water he had clutched between his hands. Gwen was content to watch as he slowly brought it to his lips and began to drink from it. It was probably for the best that he was drinking water; Gwen remembered many a time when her father had come home from a night out at the pub with his friends, and a glass of water seemed to help alleviate the effects of the alcohol. She wasn't sure how much the inspector had consumed that night, but judging by the way he was behaving it had to have been more than a few drinks.

He lowered the glass to his lap. "I don't understand why this happened," he said mournfully. "I'm a decent enough man, aren't I?" He looked to her for confirmation.

"Of course you are. You've done nothing to deserve this," she assured him.

"Is it because I didn't believe? How could I? Something as incredible as this...how could I have possibly known? I'm so, so sorry! I condemned a man who only needed help. And now I'm paying for it," he said, lowering his head into his hand.

"It wasn't your fault," said Gwen.

He removed his hand and stared at her incredulously. "How can you, of all people, say that? It was my fault Lawrence Talbot was sent to Lambeth. All those deaths he caused...because I didn't believe! Oh God, please forgive me!" he cried, setting the glass down on the table and bringing both hands to his face. He began rocking back and forth on the couch anxiously.

"Stop this, Inspector. Listen," she commanded firmly, "I don't blame you for what happened to Lawrence, and I'm sure if he were here, he wouldn't blame you either."

Aberline wiped at his eyes and looked back up to her, obvious pain etched on his face. "If I've truly done nothing to deserve this, then why? _Why?_ I don't understand it!" he cried miserably.

"It just happened. There's nothing you could have done to prevent what happened that night. But we can fix it. We both know better now, and we can make this right," said Gwen.

Aberline studied her for several seconds, before shaking his head and lowering it. Silence stretched between them, until he finally spoke.

"Why are you doing this?" he murmured, not lifting his eyes from his hands.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"This," he said, moving his head to look around the room, before settling on her. "Helping me. Why?"

He asked it in such a way that left no doubt that he was genuinely perplexed as to why someone would go out of their way to help someone like him. It made Gwen's heart ache.

"It's not just you that I'm helping," she told him. "By choosing to help you, I'm also protecting other people."

After a moment, Aberline nodded slowly, seeming to accept her explanation. "I see," he said, going back to looking down at his hands, which were clenched into fists atop his lap. "But to protect others, I must be kept away."

Gwen nodded. "Yes, exactly. That's what the cellar is for. Every full moon, you'll go down there. To keep everyone safe."

Aberline shook his head. "What's the point? I could just end it all. I could put a stop to this, and then everyone would be safe. I'd be less of a burden."

" _No_ ," Gwen said sharply. "You mustn't think like that. There is another way, Inspector. Sir John kept himself locked away for twenty-five years."

"And look what happened! Sooner or later, it will get out, and when it does, lives will be lost. I couldn't live with myself...I won't allow myself to become a murderer," said Aberline, hanging his head defeatedly.

"I won't let that happen." Gwen leaned forward and placed her hands over the inspector's. He looked up to her with bleary eyes. " _We_ won't let that happen," she continued. "I know it's possible. We can beat this together. Please, just hold on. I promise you things will get better."

"You can't promise such a thing," he told her softly.

She gave him a small smile. "Well I just did."

* * *

 **This chapter was a beast to write (heh). I don't know what it was, but it just didn't flow as naturally as the previous chapters did, and I think it sort of shows. Maybe I'm just being hard on myself.**

 **It was a known fact that the real Aberline could not hold his drink. His first time at an Irish pub didn't go over too well...**

 **This was a very long chapter, nearly 2,500 words longer than average, which might be part of the reason why I had trouble writing it. It's defnitely the reason why it took me so long to get it out to you guys. I hope the flow of it isn't too jarring. It is a lot more dialogue heavy than the others have been.**

 **Also, to make an already long chapter even longer, I want to give thanks to Bhoddisatva and Darkrose1310 for actually taking the time to respond to my messages. You guys truly motivate me to keep up with the updates, and even inspire some things in the story. I knew going into writing this that it would not get a lot of attention. I wrote this mainly for myself, and for the few people who enjoyed The Wolfman enough to look it up on this site in search of a good story. I just hope this lives up to your high expectations!**


	7. Torment

Aberline exited the carriage slowly. He was having trouble coordinating his movements and his foot nearly missed the step. It took a while, but eventually he got his feet on the ground, and he muttered a farewell to the driver before turning and ascending the steps to his house.

He pulled out his key ring and thumbed through several keys before finding what he thought was the key to his house (he couldn't be sure, since his vision seemed to be going out of focus), which he then tried inserting into the lock. To his irritation, he missed. He tried again several more times, but the key seemed to be working against him. Letting out an angry groan, he clutched the keys in his hand and began banging on his door, a rather silly action considering he lived alone. He even gave the door a good kick, and when that didn't work, he resorted back to trying the keys again. It took all his concentration to steady his hand, but he managed to get the tip of the key into the small opening.

 _Capital!_ he thought excitedly, grinning with smug satisfaction at finally besting the infuriating keyhole. His excitement turned into frustration when he tried to push the key in further, and met resistance. It was the wrong key.

He stood there, glaring at the key, before letting loose a slew of foul curses that would have made an Irishman proud. He yanked the key out as he continued to mutter obscenities. Finding the _right_ key this time, he twisted it and opened the door roughly, letting it slam against the inside wall. He stumbled inside his house, shutting the door behind him before pocketing his keys and removing his coat and hat, which he then hung on the coat rack. Still fuming, he moved to turn around. As he did, the toe of his shoe caught on his umbrella holder, sending it toppling over, and nearly him along with it.

"Bloody..! Damnit!" he growled, bending down to right the overturned holder. The umbrella hadn't been knocked loose, but something else—something _silver_ —had. Aberline squinted down at the object, recognizing it as the silver wolf's head cane that had once belonged to Lawrence Talbot. He had brought it back home to London with him, thinking of it as nothing more than a memento; a grim reminder of the events leading up to Talbot's demise, and unknowingly, his own. Had he not been extremely drunk at the moment, he probably would have reevaluated his decision to keep the cane. But right now, he was angry. Angry at the cane, which stared back at him with unblinking silver eyes. Angry at the horrible hand that life had dealt him. And most of all, he was angry at his inability to do anything to change it.

With an enraged snarl, he clutched the cane in his hand and chucked it across the room. It hit the wall with a heavy thud before bouncing off and landing somewhere out of view.

The inspector stood there for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with each rasping breath he took. Anger clouded his vision, and he was beginning to feel quite hot. His equilibrium suddenly took a drastic turn for the worse. He staggered forward several steps, and had to bring a hand to his mouth when he felt bile begin to rise to his throat. He rushed to his bathroom, flipping on the light switch before dropping down to his knees over the toilet just in time to expel the toxins in his stomach. His body forced him to repeat this action several more times until nothing was left, leaving him feeling hollow.

When the purging had finally ceased, he was left gasping for air, his whole body trembling. He felt tired and weak, and his stomach and sides ached. Suddenly, he was back in that cold dark cellar again, as his body turned on itself, hearing his cries of pain morph into bestial growls. What he was feeling now, hunched over on the floor of his bathroom, was nothing compared to the agony and crushing helplessness he had felt then. He wished to never have to feel that way again.

He could make sure that he never did.

On unsteady legs, he lifted himself to his feet, gripping the edge of the sink for support. He viewed his reflection in the mirror; his eyes were red and puffy, his hair wild and unkempt, and sweat glistened on his forehead. The man staring back at him looked rabid—like an animal that needed to be put down.

With wavering hands, he threw open the doors of his medicine cabinet and pulled out a small, folded device. He slowly opened it to its full length, watching how the light from the room's overhead bulb gleamed off of its blade.

He tugged off his suit jacket with his free hand, letting it fall to the floor at his feet, and then began to unfasten the cufflink of his left sleeve, revealing the soft flesh of his wrist. Reaffirming his grip on the razor's handle, he lowered his hand so that the blade hovered less than an inch above his wrist. For several minutes he remained absolutely still, save for the slight trembling of his hand. The longer he waited, the more he could feel his resolve weakening.

 _Just do it._

The appearance of the voice startled him, and the razor nearly slipped from his hand, which by now had become slick with perspiration. The voice had been his own, but yet it was not. It was darker, more sinister in its intentions.

"I...I-I can't," he told the voice. Yet his hand had moved to reestablish its grip on the razor, contradicting his claim.

 _You have to. You're too dangerous to be allowed to live,_ the voice inside his head reasoned.

"But Miss Conliffe...she can help me. She'll lock me away...keep me from hurting people."

The voice laughed at him, dark and condescending. _And how long will that last before_ ** _it_** _escapes? Or when she grows tired of having a monster in her basement?_

"She–sh-she won't! She cares, she does! She wants to help me," he told the voice, trying to sound more assured than he was feeling.

 _No she doesn't. She only cares about keeping others safe_ ** _from_** _you. You heard her yourself._

"I want them to be safe, too!" he cried.

 _Lies! If you truly cared, you wouldn't be hesitating. What kind of a man are you? Oh, that's right—you're not. Not anymore._

Tears began falling, and Aberline grit his teeth as he pressed the blade to his skin, just millimeters away from the enticing, bulging vein of his wrist. A droplet of crimson appeared from the point where the blade was buried.

 _There, you've done it! Now just one small movement and you will rid yourself of this curse._

Aberline knew he would be ridding himself of a lot more than that. "But there is still so much I have left to do," he told the voice.

 _You mean that there are so many innocent people left to kill_ , hissed the voice.

"No! No, that's not what I meant—"

 _Well that's what will happen if you don't put an end to this now._

Out of desperation, Aberline's thoughts turned to his family. His brother and sister...how heartbroken they would be to hear news of his death.

 _You know very well that if they knew what you were, they would hate you. They would want you dead._

Aberline shook his head. "No, they wouldn't... They wouldn't!"

 _WHO WOULD WANT A MONSTER FOR A BROTHER?_ roared the voice, making Aberline clench his eyes shut in anguish. More blood ran down his wrist as the blade cut deeper.

 _Let go, Francis. Let go for them,_ the voice hissed darkly, like a snake slithering through his mind. He wanted so much to obey, but still something held him back.

 _This should have been over and done with by now. Are you really so selfish?_ the voice taunted.

Aberline's throat was so tight that he could no longer verbally respond. His breath was coming out in rasps, and tears blurred his vision, making everything appear double. He turned his thoughts away from the people in his present, and instead looked to the people from his past. His father—

 _He would want you to do the right thing._

His mother—

 _Would be ashamed to have you for a son._

His love, Martha—surely she wouldn't want him to do this!

 _If she were alive, she wouldn't be able to stand the sight of you. She would have been smart enough to leave. Who in their right mind could ever love a monster?_

Miss Conliffe had. She had seen the good in Lawrence Talbot when others could not. She wanted to save him. Much like she was trying to save his own self now.

 _Stop this now! She doesn't care! Talbot was nothing but a ticking time bomb. An animal! She was just too stupid to see it!_

He knew she cared. If she didn't, why would she treat him with such kindness? She had no obligation to. She could just lock him up at night and turn him loose in the morning without even saying a word to him. But instead, she treated him like a person. Like a man, and not a—

 _Monster? That's exactly what you are. You will be a burden on her. She'll be glad to be rid of you without having to dirty her hands, like she did with Talbot._

Did she think him a burden? Nothing she had said to him would lead him to believe that. She was willing to house him when there was a full moon. Because of her actions, she had saved lives. If not for her, he would already be a murderer. He took some comfort from knowing that there was no blood on his hands.

 _Perhaps not yet. But there will be. Don't delude yourself. It's only a matter of time before you kill someone._

"There's still the case," Aberline said, having managed to find his voice again.

 _What case? You mean the one that wasn't assigned to you? Bradford thinks you're not fit to handle it—that you're too sick. And he's absolutely right._

"No," said Aberline, shaking his head adamantly. "I can still be of help. It's not right. Something killed that man, and it wasn't human. I...I can feel it."

 _It doesn't matter! There's nothing you can do. The curse has taken everything from you. It will continue to take everything!_

"Stop!" Aberline shouted at himself in the mirror.

 _Just do it already! You're so close! End it! End it all!_ screamed the voice.

With a roar of frustration, Aberline threw the blade against the wall. It broke on impact, sending the now-separate pieces scattering across the bathroom tile. He clutched at the sides of his head with both hands and backed up against the wall. His wobbly legs gave out from underneath him and he sank to the floor. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He was too weak.

A strangled sob tore from his throat, and his body began heaving. Suddenly all the anger, sorrow, and guilt that had built up over the past several days had been let out. The dam, which had begun to crack back at Miss Conliffe's shop, had now completely smashed open, allowing all the raw emotions to flood outward.

That night he cried for hours, leaning against the tub and holding himself like a frightened child. Before his body succumbed to exhaustion, the last thing Aberline saw was the blade lying on the floor only a meter away. The last thought that entered his mind before he lost consciousness was whether or not he had done the right thing. For everyone's sake, he prayed that he did.

* * *

The inspector was feeling a bit worse for wear the next morning as he sat in his darkened office, cradling his head in his hand. Less than two hours earlier, he had awoken on the floor of his bathroom with a splitting headache. How he managed to make himself look presentable and arrive at work on time was beyond him. But now here he was, regardless of how much he wished he was not.

He couldn't remember much of the night before. He knew that he had left Hopkins and Elena after exiting the tavern, and that he had talked with Miss Conliffe in her shop—something that almost seemed like a dream to him. But it hadn't been a dream. He remembered her laughing at him, and him becoming upset, but could not recall much of what had been said. But he did remember the promise she had made to him. Did he dare to believe her? To hope? Hope seemed like a foreign concept to him now—something that he would never be able to attain. But when he was with her, he felt the barest traces of it, if only just for a moment.

Slowly, he pulled back his left sleeve to reveal his wrist. That was something he remembered much more vividly: the suicide attempt, and the horrible voice that had invaded his mind, trying to bring him over the edge from which there was no return. He had washed the dried blood from his wrist after awakening, expecting to find a small cut that was in the early process of healing underneath. But no—what he found instead was nothing more than a faded white scar. Now, as he traced his thumb over the slightly raised flesh, already much less prominent than it had been hours earlier, he couldn't help but stare in awe. The rapidness of its healing had both amazed and disturbed him, much like the wound on his shoulder had astounded his physician and coworkers. At the time, he had thought nothing of the wound's unnatural healing, for he had still been in that blissful state of denial. Now that he was aware that the curse was very much real, he knew this had to be part of it; what else could it be?

He moved his sleeve back up to cover the scar, sighing as he lowered his throbbing head into his hand. This was all too much to deal with so early in the morning. He thought that coming in to work would force him to take his mind off of the events of the previous night, but he had made no progress at all since he arrived. He supposed he was grateful to be in his office, instead of at home. There was still a part of him that wanted to finish the act, and being at work prevented him from doing so. But he couldn't stay at work all night; he would still have to return to his home later that evening, and he feared what he would do once left to his own devices.

It was then that a small miracle presented itself to him in the form of someone knocking on his door. He glanced over to it, before lowering his hand to the desk and lifting his head painfully.

"Come in," he called, attempting to hide the wince that the minute movement had caused.

The door opened and Hopkins stepped in, carrying some sort of square-shaped package in his arms. By the way he was holding the package, it appeared to have a decent amount of weight to it.

"Morning sir," he said in a strained voice as he moved over to the desk and deposited the mysterious package. He let out a puff of air, glad to be relieved of its heft. His eyes moved to look at the window behind Aberline, which had its thick curtains drawn, preventing any light from entering the room. The only light in the room came from a flickering candle, perched on top of his boss's desk. He turned back to Aberline, giving him a curious look that went unnoticed by the older man, who had his eyes set on the package in front of him.

"Morning," came his superior's distant reply, before he looked up from the package. "I was unaware you were also my errand runner."

"If I was, would you pay me for my services?" asked Hopkins.

"No."

Hopkins scrunched his face in disappointment. "Drat! I lugged that bloody thing up here for nothing, then."

Aberline lifted a skeptical brow, before standing and placing both hands at the base of the package. With little effort, he lifted it from the desk, and even moved it up and down several times before setting it back down again and fixing Hopkins with an unimpressed glare.

Hopkins crossed his arms. "Show off."

"What is it?" asked Aberline, sitting back down in his chair. The display of strength from earlier had caused his skull to pound even more.

Hopkins shrugged. "Dunno. Oh, almost forgot—" He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope. "This came with it," he said, holding it out to Aberline. Aberline took it and turned it over in his hand. His name, written in cursive, was on the other side.

"So who's it from, you think? I haven't forgotten your birthday, have I?" asked Hopkins.

"I've no idea. And I've never even told you my birthday," said Aberline, opening a drawer to his right and pulling out a small letter opener. He broke the envelope's seal and removed the letter from within.

"When is your birthday?"

"Why? Do you have any more grand ideas involving loading me up with booze?" Aberline asked sarcastically.

"Hey, don't be blaming me! You seemed more than happy to order those three extra drinks yourself," retorted Hopkins.

Aberline ignored the man and unfolded the letter. It was written in the same elegant cursive that was on the envelope. He finished reading the first sentence before discovering the identity of the sender. Immediately he folded the letter back up and looked at Hopkins. "Did you see who delivered this?" he asked.

"It was just some boy. He didn't specify who the package was from," Hopkins told him. He raised a curious brow. "Why? Who's it from? Whoever sent it must have paid that boy extra. Bloody thing weighs a ton," he muttered.

"No reason," Aberline deflected, glancing at the letter. "It's from my sister. Just some..." He brought his fist to his mouth and feigned a cough, his mind trying to come up with some sort of lie. His eyes shifted to the flickering candle that sat on his desk. He coughed again. "Excuse me," he apologized, swallowing for added effect. "They're scented candles that my sister made for me."

"Scented candles? What on earth does she put in them? Lead?"

"They came with holders."

"Ah. Well isn't that just lovely. Do you suppose she'd send me some if I asked? Elena would love them," said Hopkins.

Aberline gave a small smile, relieved that his lie had gone unnoticed. "I'll let her know. Now, if you don't mind, I'm currently nursing a frightful headache and would prefer some quiet."

Hopkins held up his hands and began moving over to the door. "All right, all right. I can tell when I'm not wanted. Do let me know what she says, will you?"

"Of course. Now..." Aberline made a shooing motion with his hand, and Hopkins rolled his eyes before exiting the room. Once the door was shut, Aberline unfolded the letter and began reading it from the beginning.

 _Dear Inspector,_

 _I trust this reaches you well. I would have given you this last night, but thought better of it. Inside is a compilation of books I have gathered from my collection regarding the supernatural. I suggest you read them at your own leisure; I don't imagine your colleagues will find your sudden interest in the occult to be just an innocent pastime. There is countless information to be found within the pages of these texts on the subject of lycanthropy. I don't know of how much help it will be to you, but I am hoping that you will find some of it to be invaluable._

 _Good luck to you, Inspector._

 _P.S. Your watch is inside._

Aberline reread the letter several times, not quite believing what he was seeing. He had to look through the package.

Standing up from his chair, he undid the tweed string that held the wrapping in place and removed the paper, revealing a box. He opened the top and found that there were indeed several thick books inside. He pulled the top one out and studied the cover: _Lycanthropy_ by Dr. J.P.J. Kelsey. He set it down and pulled out the next, titled _Werewolves: Lore, Legend, and Lycanthropy._

Dumbfounded, he placed the books back in the box and stood there for a moment. He was not entirely sure of how he felt about the odd gesture. It certainly seemed well-intended, and he _could_ potentially learn a lot from the texts. However, at the same time these books were most likely written by a third party, meaning that the only thing to be found within the pages was only theory and stuff of legends, and how much good would that do him? Still...it might be interesting, even if it would ultimately be a waste of time. And without having any cases assigned to him, he did have time to waste.

He was about to close the box, when he saw a familiar shiny object wedged at the bottom. He reached inside and pulled his watch out by its chain, letting it dangle in front of him. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly in amusement. How charming.

* * *

 **Fun Fact: Aberline's birthday is on January 8th.**

 **A bit of a dark chapter, but I felt it was necessary for Aberline to face his demons. Forgive the late update. Life waits for no man/woman, unfortunately.**

 **I just got back from watching the new Goosebumps movie, and decided to finish up this chapter and post it before I went to bed. I'm a bit exhausted right now, so please excuse any grammatical errors you may find.**


	8. Anxiety

That night after having dinner, Aberline lit his fireplace and scooted his arm chair in front of it. He opened the box sitting on his coffee table and pulled out the top book, _Lycanthropy_ , before moving to sit in his chair. Once he was comfortable, sitting in the warm glow of the hearth, he opened the large tome to the first chapter, titled "A Case of Lycanthropy," and began reading.

 _Delusions of being a wolf or some other feared animal are universal and, although rare in industrialized countries, still occur in China, India, Africa, and Central and South America. The animals in the delusional transformation include leopards, lions, elephants, crocodiles, sharks, buffalo, eagles, and serpents._

 ** _Case Report_**

 _A 49-year-old woman presented on an urgent basis for psychiatric evaluation because of delusions of being a wolf and "feeling like an animal with claws." She suffered from extreme apprehension and felt that she was no longer in control of her own fate: she said, "A voice was coming out of me." Throughout her 20-year marriage she experienced compulsive urges towards bestiality, lesbianism, and adultery._

 _The patient chronically ruminated and dreamed about wolves._

Aberline paused his reading. While he currently held none of the bizarre sexual urges accompanying this woman's illness—something for which he was _immensely_ grateful—he did have experience with the horrible dreams. They were less frequent than they had been in the month leading up to his first transformation, but every few days or so they would return like a thief in the night, robbing him of his sleep.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps reading this before bed wasn't the best course of action.

He closed the book and stood from the chair, before placing it on the seat and leaving for his kitchen. Moments later he returned with a small clear glass of bourbon—not enough to get drunk, but just enough to calm his nerves. He took a sip from it and placed the glass on the coffee table next to him before picking up the book and sitting back down in the chair. There; much better. He opened the book back up and began reading where he left off.

 _The patient chronically ruminated and dreamed about wolves. One week before her admission, she acted on these ruminations for the first time. At a family gathering, she disrobed, assumed the female sexual posture of a wolf, and offered herself to her mother. This episode lasted for approximately 20 minutes. The following night, after coitus with her husband, the patient suffered a 2-hour episode, during which time she growled, scratched, and gnawed the bed. She stated that the devil came into her body and she became an animal. Simultaneously, she experienced auditory hallucinations. There was no drug involvement or alcohol intoxication._

Upon finishing the paragraph Aberline promptly closed the book, a look of disgust on his face. Perhaps he should avoid reading about real life cases for the time being, and instead focus his attention on lore and legends.

After placing the book at the _bottom_ of the pile, he removed the book titled _Werewolves: Lore, Legend, and Lycanthropy._ He read and read, until the flames turned to smoldering embers in his fireplace. Looking up from the pages, he could scarcely make out the time on the small clock above the mantle in the faint glow; it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. Just seeing the time caused him to set the book down in his lap and yawn. In the hours he had been reading, he had learned much. However, what he learned was practically useless to him, such as discovering that the term 'lycanthropy' originated from the Greek legend of King Lycaon, who was cursed to become a wolf after feeding the god Zeus a meal of human flesh. He had also learned other "facts" such as the identifying physical traits of a werewolf, which included eyebrows that met at the middle, different colored eyes, elongated canines (he had actually taken a finger to his teeth for this one, relieved to have found no abnormalities), and coarse hair over the palms and body. None of these applied to him, proving the information false.

He had also found that there were more ways to become a werewolf other than by being bitten; things as ridiculous as donning a wolf pelt and chanting some asinine incantation, to simply sleeping under the full moon on a Friday. He failed to see the reasoning in that last one, but then again much of the lore was bizarre and illogical.

Another yawn escaped him, and he decided it was time for bed. He dog-eared the page he was on before closing the book and standing. He placed it on the table and began making his way to his room, stopping when he reached the door to his bathroom. For a moment he stood out in the hall, staring into the dark room where he had almost taken his life only a day before. Part of him wished he had. But he had been drunk that night; his inhibitions lowered to dangerous levels. Now he was sober—mostly, anyway—and while he may not have cared whether he lived or died, he did not think he could ever fully bring himself to complete the terrible act should he try again.

"You can't have me. Not tonight," Aberline whispered, tearing his eyes from the room and continuing on to his bedroom, where he undressed and curled up under the thick covers. He was asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

* * *

The next day followed the same pattern as the one before it, with the inspector waking, going to work, and spending long hours in his office writing out budgets and looking over reports on petty crimes. His workload seemed to have mysteriously doubled since his meeting with Commissioner Bradford, and he bitterly scribbled away at the many papers that cluttered his desk.

It was during these times when he missed his old job as a police inspector the most. He had been allowed much more freedom to move around. Even before he had been bitten, he would often get stir-crazy after being confined to his office for such long periods of time.

Every now and then the silence would be broken by Hopkins coming in to speak with him, often about insignificant things like the weather, what his plans for the night were, and other things that Aberline hadn't really paid much attention to. Sometimes the other man would bring in more reports, much to his displeasure.

As much as Aberline hated to admit it, he'd had a much more exciting time hunting down a mythical monster in the moors, and he would gladly take that over the dreaded desk duty he was tasked with now.

Each evening after work, he would come home and eat dinner, light the fire, and sit down with a book and a glass of bourbon. It had become like some sort of ritual. At work, he continued to make inquiries for cases to Bradford, who would assert in his patronizing, droning tone that there were no new cases to assign. When Aberline would ask about the progress being made on the bum case, Bradford would glower at him and say, _"It's being handled as diligently as possible. That's all you need to know."_ Aberline highly doubted that, but still he would politely bow his head and exit his superior's office, only to return to his own and busy himself with mindless paperwork that, in his opinion, was beneath him.

This routine persisted for the next few weeks, until the moon was only three days shy of being full. Aberline grew more distraught with each passing night, knowing that he was being brought closer and closer to his undoing. It was like being on a runaway train without brakes, each mile bringing it closer to its eventual collision. Only Aberline wasn't a train; he couldn't simply be fixed up and improved to prevent another crash from happening. After his crash, he would be forced to piece himself back together only to have it happen again. And again. And again. How many times could he break down before he eventually gave out?

He stood motionless, looking out his front window at the moon, nearly full except for a sliver of shadow. In his hand he held a paper which had a list of dates written on it. He had found the paper wedged between the stack of books and the side of the box nearly a week ago; he figured it to have originally been on top of the stack, but had slid off in the process of being delivered to him. At the very top of the small parchment, written in what he was now familiar with as being Miss Conliffe's handwriting, was _Sunday ~ March 13._

In the light that the moon provided, he read down the list for the umpteenth time since discovering it, displeased that no full moon landed on a Saturday night. There wouldn't be a full moon on a Saturday for the duration of the year, it seemed. This knowledge was very upsetting, since Sunday was the only day of the week he had off. There would be no reprieve—no time for recuperation the morning after. He placed a hand to his head; he felt agitated just merely standing in the moonlight.

With an angry flourish, he yanked the curtains closed and sat down roughly in his chair, positioned in front of the fireplace. He remained there until the red glow of the last ember went out.

* * *

The remaining two days seemed to only serve as a reminder of what was coming for him. His appetite had grown considerably, along with his temper, which was only made worse due to the insatiable hunger he felt. On one occasion he lashed out at a poor junior officer for simply getting in his way. He had ground out a rather harsh reprimand that sent the younger man scurrying off. It was only later when he'd realized what he had done and sought out the man to offer an apology.

His change in attitude did not go unnoticed by the other officers. Aberline could hear their whisperings when they thought he wasn't listening.

 _"What d'you suppose his problem is?"_

 _"I dunno. He hasn't been right since his return from Blackmoor."_

 _"Poor man. No telling what he's been through."_

 _"Aye."_

It stung, being on the other end of his coworkers' gossip. He couldn't fault them for it; it was only natural for them to be curious about his particularly surly demeanor as of late. He just wished, more than anything, that he did not have to hear it—which was nearly impossible without having to physically cover his ears. That was another thing that had been grating on his nerves: the extra sensitive hearing. The March rain pounded at his window, and what would have normally been no more than a mild nuisance at best now sounded like large pebbles bouncing off of the glass pane. It was the cause of much grief while filling out paperwork.

"Are you all right, sir?" Hopkins had asked him later that day as he was returning to his office after sending in his reports. He had been present during his superior's uncharacteristic outburst towards the young officer.

"I'm just tired," Aberline dismissed.

"I can see that. You're looking a bit pale, too. Maybe you should see a physician," suggested Hopkins.

"I'm fine," Aberline insisted, having become annoyed at the other man's unwelcome input. Why should he care about his wellbeing? He wouldn't if he knew what exactly had been the cause of his boss's ill health.

"If you say so," Hopkins said with a shrug of indifference. "I'll leave you to your...whatever it is you're doing."

"Thank you," Aberline said stiffly, turning away from the other man and entering his office. He sat down in his leather chair, staring at his desk absently. He hated this wanton feeling of anger, which was more often than not directed at nothing in particular. He told himself that it was not him, but the monster that lurked inside of him. Still, that did not make him feel any better about his behavior.

 _Just_ _one more day. One more day of feeling like a wretch, and then you'll be free for another month._

He wished it were that simple.

* * *

He cracked his eyes open the next morning, only to shut them again at the invading sunlight coming in through his bedroom window. He brought a hand to cover them as he threw the covers off and sat on the edge of his bed, facing away from the blinding light. Slowly, he lowered his hand, letting it rest on the mattress next to his thigh. His body felt heavy and lethargic. Had it felt this way the day of the last full moon? It seemed so long ago, yet not long enough.

With rousing effort, he stood up from his bed and stretched, discovering a small ache that affected his entire body. As he came down from his stretch, he heard his stomach growl, alerting him of its need to be filled—preferably with meat. The very thought of cured hams and legs of lamb caused his mouth to water.

Realizing his body's odd reaction, he physically shook the thought from his mind, disgusted at himself for slipping into temptation.

At least today was his day off. Maybe he would be able to get some rest, and that would carry him over into the next morning. It seemed a sound theory, but it ended up being useless in practice. He had tried, in vain, to go back to sleep, but now his body seemed to hum with energy. His stomach was also giving him grief, but he refused to give in to its want. Throughout the day he had nibbled on nothing but cheese and bread, both tasting incredibly dry in his mouth and upsetting to his stomach. Water seemed to be the only safe thing for him, other than meat.

For a fleeting moment he had thought about attending church, before realizing it would be a fruitless endeavor. God would not help him; not now. Instead, giving in to his restless body, he spent most of the day outdoors walking the streets.

It did little to calm his frayed nerves.

* * *

All too soon night had arrived, and Aberline found himself standing outside of Miss Conliffe's antique shop. He was wearing only a loose fitting undershirt, his oldest pair of trousers, his shoes, and his new tan overcoat to help ward off the lingering winter chill. Before leaving his house, he thought it best to change into clothing he would not miss should they become damaged. At his side he held a leather bag in his white-knuckle grip. He cast a quick glance at the street behind him. People were still milling about, thankfully paying him no mind.

He reached into the pocket of his coat to check the time on his watch, and winced when his hand touched its smooth exterior. It felt hot, almost scalding. He removed his hand immediately and stared at it; the tips of his fingers were slightly pink from where he had touched the watch's silver surface. Interesting.

When he had left his home, it had been almost half past seven, and it had taken him no more than twenty minutes to arrive at the shop. So, it was nearly ten till eight then, and already he was beginning to feel the pull of the moon, pale and swollen in the sky, causing his body to feel heavy and his skin feverish. Not wanting to remain under its fierce glare any longer, he summoned his courage and knocked on the shop door. Moments later Miss Conliffe arrived, staring up at him with somber eyes.

"Evening, Inspector." She felt it appropriate to omit the "good" part on this particular night.

"Miss Conliffe," he replied, not quite bringing his eyes to meet hers. They continued to stand there in silence, neither entirely sure of what to do next.

"Shall we sit in the parlor and talk for a bit?" Gwen offered. "If we have time, I could make some tea."

The normalcy in which she spoke only served to make him feel worse about what was going to happen to him. He just wanted to get in, go down to the cellar, and then leave the next morning. He did not want to burden her with anything else.

"No. I'd prefer it if we just got this over with," he said tonelessly.

The corners of Gwen's mouth turned down in disappointment, but she gave a quick nod and moved to open the door for him. "Of course. Come in," she said. He stepped inside and removed his coat and hat, hanging them up on the rack. As he released his coat, he realized that he had forgotten to take his ring off before coming. He removed it from his little finger and placed it safely inside the pocket of his coat.

Gwen eyed the bag he had placed at his feet curiously. He caught her staring and he bent to pick it up. "It's an extra set of clothes," he told her. "Along with the clothes you lent me, and the tea cup. A gift for a gift." Gwen frowned in confusion, and he explained. "My watch. You returned it to me, among other things."

"Oh. Well, thank you. For returning them," she tacked on awkwardly, taking the bag from him and setting it down on a table. She turned back to him. "Are you ready?" she asked.

Aberline stared at her, before lowering his eyes. That was the only answer he gave her.

Gwen nodded. "All right. Follow me." She led him through the display cases and various statues over to the basement door. She took a short moment to light a candle before rejoining Aberline, who had taken off his shoes and socks and was setting them against the wall. Once he was finished, Gwen opened the door and they descended the steps—her leading the way by candlelight with Aberline trudging behind. With each downward step, anxiety filled his chest; he felt very much like a prisoner being led to his cell. Or the gallows.

When they reached the bottom landing, Gwen undid the latches with her free hand and opened the door, pressing her back against the wall to allow Aberline to enter first. The inspector stared into the gloom apprehensively, then gave Gwen a nervous glance before stepping past her and entering the room. Gwen followed in behind, the light from the candle illuminating the small space. She had already known about the marks on the walls and floor, but she heard Aberline gasp as he stared in awe at the long parallel gashes that marred the brick. She watched as he slowly brought his fingertips to the etch marks, finding that they were spaced too far apart for his fingers to trace. He visibly shuddered and backed away from the wall.

"I did this?" he asked in disbelief. His eyes lingered on the long gashes before he turned to Gwen, who hesitated, before nodding solemnly. The inspector appeared crestfallen as he continued to survey the rest of the room. When his eyes landed on a small mattress and blanket in the far corner, he turned to look at her questioningly.

"It gets cold down here, and I thought that...maybe you would want some comfort," she said sheepishly.

The inspector's expression was unreadable as he turned back to the makeshift bed on the floor. "I don't need it," he told her. Gwen parted her lips to protest, but he cut her off with his hard gaze. "I don't deserve it."

At his admittance, Gwen moved over to him and lifted a hand. He flinched slightly at the unexpected movement, causing her to hesitate, before letting her hand come to rest on his arm. He stared uneasily into her eyes, which appeared ghostly white in the light of the candle.

"Yes, you do. You deserve every bit of comfort tonight." She motioned to the mattress with the candle. "This is all I can do, and it still isn't enough. I wish there was more I could do for you," she whispered sadly.

Aberline was taken aback by the conviction in her words. He could see the wetness in her eyes, and smell the perfume on her skin, she was so close to him. If he focused, he could even feel the pulse of her hand as it held his arm. The feeling was almost dizzying, and he found himself lost in her scent and heartbeat.

With grim comprehension, he stepped away from her, breaking out of his trance and causing her arm to drop back to her side. "I think it's best you go, Miss Conliffe," he told her, swallowing the lump in his throat. "It's...almost time."

Gwen's eyes held his for a moment longer, before she lowered them and turned to head for the door. "Once you've finished undressing, hand me your clothes," she said, much to his surprise.

"What?"

She stopped and turned back to him. "Well, I figured you wouldn't want to ruin your clothes, so the most practical thing to do would be to undress," she told him.

 _Of course_. He didn't think of that. But now that he was, it made him blush. "I'm—I don't think..." he stammered.

"If you're uncomfortable with it, you don't have to," she said.

He thought it over for a moment, before sighing. It made the most sense, despite how awkward it was. "All right," he told her reluctantly.

"Good. I'll leave this here and wait outside for when you've finished." She bent and placed the candle next to the door, allowing him light, before rising and exiting the room. She did not fully close the door, instead leaving it cracked.

He stared at it for several seconds, sensing her presence on the other side, which only added to his uncertainty about the whole situation. Honestly, he was being ridiculous. In minutes he was going to turn into a horrific monster and he was worried about _modesty_? Shaking his head, he began stripping out of his clothes.

When he was finished, he held the bundle of clothes in his arms, but before going to the door, he turned and eyed the blanket that was spread across the mattress. He bent down and snatched it up, wrapping it around himself as best he could with one hand before moving over to the door. He passed the clothes through the gap and felt them being taken from his hand. He glanced down at the small candle on the ground and picked it up and passed it through the gap for Gwen to take as well. He had no need for the light; he did not want to see what was about to happen to him.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to talk? Maybe it will help ease your nerves," she said from behind the door. "I don't have to come in. I could just sit on the steps and talk with you."

Aberline closed his eyes, considering his options. In the end, he decided against her offer. "No. I'd rather be alone...for this."

Silence followed, before she said, "Very well. I'll come for you in the morning with a bath drawn."

When Aberline said nothing, she murmured one final goodbye and shut the door. Aberline listened as she set each latch in place, each click feeling like a punch to his gut. His eyes, although they could see nothing but darkness, remained on the door. It was only when his legs began to feel weak when he turned and headed over to where he remembered the mattress to be. His foot made contact, and he slowly lowered himself down onto it, moving so that his back rested against the wall. He let the blanket fall down to his waist to allow his fevered skin to press against the cold brick, providing him some small bit of comfort.

How long would it be now? For his first change he had been outside and active, a stark contrast to how he was now sitting relatively still on the small mattress. Because of the stillness, he was able to pick up on every little irregularity going on in his body. Based on his quickening heart rate and the humming and aching in his bones, he estimated he only had a few more minutes; ten at most.

The next eight minutes were the longest of his life. It was an even worse feeling, he decided, knowing for sure that the change was coming and that he was powerless to stop it. As the minutes ticked by, he grew increasingly distressed and agitated to the point where he was almost begging for the change to overtake him, just to end this insufferable waiting. At a loss for what else to do, he began to pray. Praying to a god that had forsaken him—praying to anyone that was listening, just to fill the silence of his solitude.

He changed his mind. He didn't want to be alone—not for this. He should have taken up Miss Conliffe on her offer to talk; anything was better than the utter feeling of loneliness and despair he was being subjected to.

Desperation gripped him as he stood unsteadily and moved over to the door, clutching the blanket around him tightly. Maybe she would be able to hear him if he knocked loudly enough!

He raised his fist to strike the iron door, but before it could make contact, it halted its motion, restrained by some invisible force. Suddenly it began to tremble, and with several loud cracks his fist was forced open. Aberline brought his other hand to hold his wrist, trying to stop the spasms, but it, too, had begun to tremble and distort painfully. He let out a shocked gasp and backed away from the door, keeping his hands as far away from him as possible.

"No, it's too soon!" he cried, before a wave of pain and nausea overcame him, and he doubled over and clutched his sides, grimacing. From underneath his skin he could feel his ribs shift sickeningly as his chest began to expand. The pain was so sudden, so great, that he could no longer stand, and he lowered himself to his knees. He placed one spasming hand on the floor to steady himself, and a cry tore from his throat when the notches of his spine began jutting out one by one. He fell flat to the floor, his arm no longer able to support his growing mass, and wrapped both arms around himself in a desperate attempt to stem the pain in his ribs. His insides felt as if they were being twisted into knots, eliciting more sounds of agony from him.

 _Please, God, make it stop!_ he silently begged.

He could feel his nails beginning to grow, cutting into the flesh surrounding them. His skin was on fire, and through the burning he could feel his nails/claws tearing into his sides as he desperately tried to hold his body together. The bones in his cheeks cracked and popped outward and the bridge of his nose compressed painfully, forming into some sort of muzzle. His jaws began to lengthen and his teeth were now shifting in his mouth, causing unseen blood to splatter on the floor as his canines grew into carnivorous fangs.

Somewhere else in the cacophony of pain his feet began to elongate, his toenails forming into claws, and his large toes traversing up to his ankles to form dewclaws. Hairs began sprouting from his pores, coating his entire body with thick fur. All of this was happening simultaneously, and the inspector was able to feel every agonizing, torturous bit of it.

His vision suddenly exploded with sparks of color, and he was now able to see into the darkness with unnatural acuity. He watched in horror at what remained of his hands as they raked over the floor, desperate for anything to sink their new claws into. There was nothing he could do but lie there, writhing and screaming in absolute, unadulterated agony as his tendons stretched and his bones broke and reformed, and muscles were ripped apart and knitted back together in unnatural ways.

He continued to scream until his cries were no longer that of a man, but of a snarling beast.

Finally, after seemingly an eternity, his mind fogged over and he began to lose awareness. It was like he was drowning; drifting deeper and deeper down as darkness closed in around him. The pain was fading— _thank God_ —and the animal's consciousness was taking over. The last thing Francis Aberline felt as his mind left him, as he drowned, was unspeakable hunger and rage.

With a snarl, the beast righted itself and shook out its fur. It remained on all fours, breathing heavily as it looked around the room with narrowed, hungry eyes; it remembered it from its first night in existence, and growled angrily. Furious at being trapped once again, it threw back its head and let loose a long, vengeful wail.

* * *

At the top of the stairs, Gwen stood with a hand over her mouth as she stared down in horror at the cellar door. She had heard the sickening cries—each and every one of them. Then the howl came, and she let out a shaky breath. The change was complete, sparing the poor inspector of any more pain. But she knew that the transformation did not end with the beast. It ended with the man, sore and exhausted the next morning, desperately needing rest but unwilling to attain it. She felt he was a fool for putting his duties before the needs of his body, but there was something to be said about his undying dedication to his job. As much as Gwen wished it was not so, she had no say in what the inspector did once he was released from the cellar. The most she could provide for him was a bath and hot tea.

Or...perhaps she _could_ do more. She turned and headed to the kitchen to prepare for the next morning.

* * *

 **That first section with the book reading was lifted directly from an actual book titled _A Lycanthropy Reader: Werewolves in Western Culture_ and was written by Charlotte F. Otten. I'm not sure how stringent this site is about plagiarism, so I thought it would be safest to cite the work down here.**

 **It has been said that the real Inspector Abberline was less than happy with his promotion to Chief Inspector, due to the amount of desk work largely outweighing the amount of street work.**

 **I didn't quite get this to come out on the night of the full moon, but it's close enough! Hope it was enjoyable enough and will tide you over until the next chapter. Have a lovely night/day! :)**


	9. Comfort

As he slowly regained consciousness, Aberline became vaguely aware of something cold and hard beneath his cheek. He managed to open one eye—the one that was not currently squished against the floor—but all he could see was blackness. He placed his palm flat on the floor and strained to lift his head, grimacing as the muscles in his neck and shoulders protested against the movement.

Now that he was awake, his body began to shiver from the cold air around him. Wherever he was, it was dark and absolutely freezing. Like a... _cellar_.

He took in a sharp breath and quickly brought a hand to his face; his body instantly relaxed when his fingers met skin, and not fur.

He lay there, hunched over, catching his breath from the scare and waiting for the rapid beating of his heart to slow. Now that he was sure he was himself again, he turned his attention to his surroundings. He could not rely on his eyes, so he began to feel around him. Underneath him was the mattress, but try as he might he could not find the blanket. There had been a blanket, hadn't there? His mind was still very groggy, but from what he could recall of the last night, there had been.

 _Must've come off when..._

A shiver ran through him, this time not caused by the cold. It had happened again. He had allowed the curse to take him, and the knowledge of it made him ill. He turned his thoughts away from the horror of the previous night, and instead focused on finding the blanket. His hands roamed around him but touched nothing except the floor and mattress.

And something... _fluffy?_

He closed his fist around the foreign clump, finding that it felt very much like wool. He discovered several more clumps strewn about where he lay, and upon further inspection he located the source of all the fluff; there had been several places in the mattress where the fabric had been split open, revealing the wool stuffing within.

With a groan, he rolled over onto his side and lowered his head to the mattress, offering some relief for his sore neck. He had not expected to wake before Miss Conliffe arrived, and the only thing he could think to do was to try to go back to sleep. His body desperately craved it, but falling asleep was nearly impossible with the chill of the cellar causing him to shiver involuntarily. He tucked his chin to his chest and drew up his knees in an attempt to keep warm. Beneath the chill his body ached terribly, only adding to his discomfort.

So, this is how far he had fallen. Decorated Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, reduced to a naked, shivering mess on the floor of Miss Conliffe's cellar. He was sure God was laughing at him.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, he did not have to wallow in the cold for much longer before he heard Miss Conliffe's voice from the other side of the door.

"Inspector? I'm coming in," she called.

Panic filled him as he heard the latches being slid out of place. He didn't want her to see him in such a vulnerable state, but it was too late now to continue searching for the blanket; the cellar door opened slowly, and light filled the room. He saw Miss Conliffe enter, holding a candle in her outstretched arm. Something was tucked under her other arm, but he hadn't gotten a good look at it before he shut his eyes. He heard her soft footsteps approach until they came to a stop right next to him.

"No...leave me," he moaned weakly, burying his face into the mattress in a futile attempt to hide his shame.

"Not a chance," her voice came from above him, sounding almost motherly. He heard the clink of the candle being set down. "Here," she said, and suddenly his body was enveloped in warmth. He let out a soft sigh and pulled the heavenly covering around him; it felt as if it had been heated next to a fire. His shivers subsided, and almost instantly he was overcome with exhaustion. It did not help that Miss Conliffe seemed to be running a hand through his hair—the action only further lulling him to sleep.

In reality, Gwen had spotted a tuft of wool that had been tangled in the inspector's unruly hair and was removing it. Confused as to how it had gotten there, she glanced around where the inspector lay and saw that the stuffing had been torn from the mattress and was littering the entire corner of the room. When she turned back to Aberline, she saw that his eyes had started to drift closed. She was tempted to just let him rest, but she knew that if she did not rouse him she would never hear the end of it when he eventually awoke.

"Inspector, you need to wake up. There's a hot bath waiting for you upstairs. Doesn't that sound lovely?" she prodded gently, as if speaking to a child.

Aberline's eyes opened slightly, shifting to look at her tiredly. He wanted nothing more than to close them and go back to sleep, wrapped in his warm little cocoon. He was not ready to face the world—not now. But already he was becoming aware of the diminishing heat of the blanket. It wouldn't be much longer now before he was cold again, and the bath sounded like the closest thing to Heaven after spending a night in Hell.

Gwen was relieved that her small prompt seemed to work as the disgruntled man slowly moved to sit up. The action caused him to wince, and he had to pause. Gwen placed her arm around his back for leverage, and with her help, the inspector managed to get to his feet. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, both for warmth and modesty, and the two slowly made their way to the cellar door. Neither looked at each other, nor spoke as they made the slow climb up the stairs.

Partway up, Aberline had begun to feel lightheaded and had to close his eyes to fight off the wave of dizziness. It didn't help that his body currently felt like it weighed a ton as he stumbled up the steps. To Gwen, it felt like it weighed hardly anything at all, despite the fact that he had started to lean on her more as they neared the top of the stairs. The inspector had always appeared sort of wiry to her, but this was bordering on unhealthy. She had hardly any trouble supporting his weight as they continued their ascent. They were going to have to work on his eating habits. If he refused to take care of himself, she was not going to stand idly by and watch him waste away.

They cleared the top step, and Gwen led them through the doorway to the parlor. Aberline picked up the scent of burning wood before even seeing the bright orange flames of Miss Conliffe's fireplace. His earlier suspicion about the warmth of the blanket had been correct after all. He stared at the dancing flames in a daze, so entranced was he that he nearly tripped when his foot caught on the first step of the parlor room staircase.

"Sorry," Gwen said next to him. "I should have warned you."

"S'alright," he mumbled, still too out of it to communicate properly.

Like the last time, she led him up the stairs and into the bathroom, telling him that his clothes were in the leather bag he had brought with him before leaving him alone to bathe. He didn't leave the tub until every inch of his body had been scrubbed clean of the filth that had been coating it. It was a mix of sweat and something else he could not identify; whatever it was, it smelled wild and musky, and he scrubbed harder, eager to be rid of the stench.

His skin was pink by the time he had finished with the washcloth, and with some difficulty, he lifted himself from the tub and dried off with a towel. Once he was sufficiently dry, he dressed in the spare clothes that were in the bag Miss Conliffe had left for him. They felt oddly restrictive and the fabric grated uncomfortably against his skin, and he chalked it up to another unpleasant side effect of the change. He gathered up his leather bag and drained the tub before leaving the bathroom, not even bothering to look himself over in the mirror.

He stepped out into the small hallway and shut the door behind him before making his way to the stairs. He stopped when he reached the top step, debating what he should do next. From below, he could hear Miss Conliffe rummaging around in her kitchen, which meant that the main shop area would be clear. If he was quiet enough, maybe he could sneak out without alerting her. It was cowardly, he knew, and completely underhanded, but he didn't think he could bring himself to face her after the utter indignity he had been subjected to down in the cellar. He would write to her later, apologizing for his leaving unannounced. The thought made him feel a bit better, and he gripped the wooden railing and, ever so slowly, lowered his foot down onto the first step. Then his other onto the second, and then his other onto the third...

He was completely focused now, each careful step bringing him closer to the front door. As he got further down, he noticed an unusual aroma wafting in from the doorway leading into the kitchen—something he had not picked up on his first trip up the staircase. He leaned his head over the railing and peered in through the open door, only managing to see the bottom of Miss Conliffe's dress as she moved about the kitchen. Whatever she was preparing, it smelled delicious and made his stomach tighten. Now that he thought about it, he was feeling a bit peckish...

 _No! You need to get to the door!_

Holding his breath to block out the prevalent smell, he continued his slow descent. Only several more steps to go.

 _Four_...

 _Three_...

 _Tw_ — _squeeeak!_

His eyes widened a fraction, before scrunching closed. He mouthed a silent curse as the sounds from the kitchen ceased.

"Inspector? Is that you?" Gwen called, and Aberline heard her footsteps approaching the doorway. Like a deer caught in the crosshairs of a gun, he stood frozen on the steps as she appeared. She stopped in the doorway, giving him a cursory glance. His hair was still damp from the bath, which appeared to have done him some good, bringing a touch of color to his cheeks. He also appeared more lucid than he had been when she had come for him earlier. However, the bruises under his eyes still remained—the only indicator of the torture he'd had to endure the night before.

"Miss Conliffe," Aberline began, glancing to the parlor room doorway at the bottom of the stairs. "I really should be g—"

"If you're planning on leaving, I would highly suggest that you wait until you're completely dry," Gwen cut in before he could finish.

His eyes shifted back to her questioningly, brows pinched in confusion. "Why?"

"There was a cold snap last night and everything has frosted over. You may go sit in the parlor and warm yourself by the fireplace while I finish up in the kitchen," she said, gesturing to the small couch in the room. Aberline looked over to it, then back to her, unsure of what to do. He wanted to leave, but if what she said was true then he also did not want to freeze. He'd done enough of that already today, and it wasn't even seven yet.

"I won't stay long," he conceded.

Gwen gave a short nod. "I thought as much. I just ask that you stay long enough to dry yourself and get some proper nourishment."

"Nourishment?"

The corners of Gwen's mouth lifted slightly at his puzzlement. "Just go sit. I'll only be a moment." And with that, she turned and disappeared through the doorway.

Aberline remained where he was on the staircase, staring dumbly after her. What had she meant by 'nourishment'? What was the woman planning? Sighing, he walked down the remaining two steps and moved over to the small couch. He bent stiffly to place his bag on the floor next to it and slowly lowered himself onto the cushioned seat. His entire body seemed to creak as it melded into the contours of the couch, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. It felt good to be off his feet; the bath had dulled many of the aches in his body, but as a consequence had left his muscles feeling weak.

He turned his head to look out the window next to him and saw that the glass was covered in a veil of frost. Miss Conliffe had been truthful in her account of the cold weather. It seemed that winter was not leaving without one last fight; no wonder it had been so unbearably cold in the cellar.

The heat from the fire had caused some of the frost to melt away, allowing him to see that the air outside was tinted a deep blue, reminding him that it was much too early to be awake. He brought up a hand to rub at his tired eyes as he turned towards the hearth. The crackling of the flames sounded soothing and sleep tugged at him, but despite that his thoughts turned to work—how he'd have to dodge unwanted questions and spend the entire day in his office hiding away from everyone.

Footsteps sounded from his left, and he turned to look at the kitchen doorway just as Gwen came walking out, carrying a bowl on top of a folded towel. She moved over to him and placed it on the coffee table, and he leaned forward to view its contents. A yellow colored liquid filled the bowl, and wisps of steam rose from it. He looked at Gwen. "I really don't need anything."

"Nonsense. You look half-starved, and I stayed up late last night to make this for you. It'd be a shame for it to go to waste," she said, sitting down in the wooden chair across from him.

Aberline looked back down to the bowl. "What is it?" he asked, using the towel to pick it up and bring it closer to him.

"It's chicken stock," she said. "I didn't have as much time to prepare it as I would have liked. I do hope that it will sit well with you—I wasn't sure what you would be able to stomach."

Aberline listened absently as she spoke. The steam from the broth rose to his nostrils, and his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment. He could smell the parsley, the bits of onion—but more than that he could smell the chicken, and his jaw went slack. His stomach gurgled, and he lifted the bowl to his face in an instant.

"Be careful, it's—" Gwen tried to warn him, but Aberline had already begun drinking from the bowl. She had placed a spoon for him to use, but the inspector completely ignored it as he downed the liquid.

The broth was hot, burning his tongue as it traveled past it and down his throat, but he did not care; the heat did nothing to deter his hunger, and he lifted the bowl higher to allow more of the liquid to enter. He only paused his slurping when the occasional chunk of meat passed between his teeth, which he would then tear into with fervor before swallowing down and continuing to drink.

Gwen watched curiously as he drank greedily from the bowl. It was as if the man had never eaten a day in his life.

Not even a minute after he began, Aberline lowered the bowl from his mouth, licking the residue from his lips. He stared down at the empty bowl in his lap for a moment, before lifting his eyes to Gwen, who he only now just realized had been watching him. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he slowly set the bowl down on the table. "I apologize, I...I hadn't known I was that hungry," he told her, looking away, embarrassed.

"You needn't apologize," said Gwen. "I'm just glad that you liked it."

"You didn't have to make it for me. You didn't have to do any of this." He summoned the courage to look at her. "It's more than I deserve."

"You said that last night—that you didn't deserve comfort. Why?" asked Gwen. "And do not say it is because you're a monster, because that is not true."

"Yes, it is. And a monster does not deserve such kindness as this. Especially after the way this monster has treated you," he said, regret in his voice.

"Look, I don't hold anything against you from before. In hindsight, I suppose I could have gone about telling you a little more...delicately," she said sheepishly.

Aberline shook his head. "I don't think any other course of action would have changed anything. I can be quite stubborn, especially when in denial."

"I believe most people would be inclined to deny something such as this," commented Gwen.

"That is still no excuse for my behavior. You were only trying to warn me, and I just kept blocking you out. And to think I had the audacity to call you disturbed!" He shook his head reproachfully. "I am so sorry, Miss Conliffe. If I could take back every horrible thing I've said or done to you, I would in an instant."

Gwen smiled. "That's very kind of you, Inspector, but as I said earlier, I don't hold anything against you."

"You have every reason to. I've been so ungrateful. You have done so much for me—more than is expected. I am ashamed that I am only now properly thanking you," he said.

"You needn't feel ashamed. I've known you were grateful without you needing to say it. Actions speak louder than words, as I am sure you've come to know in your line of work," she said, giving him a small smile.

He nodded. "Yes, I agree with that sentiment. However, it is the polite thing to do that I formally thank you. Believe it or not, Miss Conliffe, but not many people would feel comfortable being in the company of a monster."

"I see no monster, so you can stop calling yourself that," Gwen reprimanded.

"Not right now," Aberline whispered, lowering his eyes. After a short moment his brows furrowed as a distressing thought came to him. He lifted them back up to her. "Do I...does it make much noise?"

"No, it doesn't," said Gwen after a second's hesitation. "I can't hear it when I'm upstairs. You needn't worry about keeping me awake." She was not about to mention the horrible cries and howls that she could hear from the top of the stairs; the inspector looked to be in enough distress already.

Aberline sighed. "It's not you I'm worried about keeping awake."

Gwen understood his meaning. "If I have difficulty hearing you, I doubt my neighbors will be able to."

Aberline wasn't convinced. "You put yourself at great risk having me here. What if someone were to hear it and come knocking? What if they complain to the police? Not to mention the danger I...the danger _it_ poses to you."

"I don't think it will come to that," she said.

"You don't know that it won't. The risk of having me here is too great," he argued.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" she asked.

Aberline sighed once more, bringing a hand to rub at his forehead. "I've no idea."

"Then you'll continue to come here," said Gwen. "You've changed here twice now without any problems."

"Other than the havoc that thing has wreaked down in your cellar," grumbled Aberline.

"I don't take issue with it. It was an old mattress. I'll just go down there later and mend it," she said.

"No," he said sharply. "It's my mess—I should be the one to clean it up. Besides, I have no need for it."

"Yes you do. What are you to sleep on? The floor?" Gwen asked skeptically.

"If that's what I have to do, then so be it," Aberline said, folding his arms.

"You're being ridiculous. It won't take hardly any effort to patch the mattress," said Gwen.

"What would be the point? It will just tear it up next month, and the month after that, and the one after that. It destroys everything it comes across, even the bloody walls!" Aberline swallowed thickly and wrapped his arms around himself as he fought off the images of the beast's claws digging into the floor as he cried out in agony.

"I'm not sure if it will do it again. It is an animal, after all. Maybe it can learn not to destroy it," said Gwen.

Aberline shook his head. "That thing knows only hunger and destruction. I could feel it, down there, when I was..." He let out a shaky breath, clasping his hands together to stop them from trembling. "I felt what it felt, only briefly, and it made me sick. It can't reason, and can't be reasoned with," he said.

Gwen could see the pain in his eyes, and knew that he was reliving those horrible memories. She leaned forward and spoke softly. "I don't believe that. There has to be a way this condition can be managed. Until we find out how, we should do everything we can to learn more about it. How it works, what it likes, what it dislikes."

"No," Aberline said firmly.

"You're not even the least bit interested in learning more about it?" questioned Gwen.

"No, frankly, I'm not. I do not wish to know anything about it. I wish it to be _gone_ ," he said.

"I understand that, but what if we can find a way to make it easier for you? To lessen the pain of the transformation?" she asked.

"You needn't involve yourself any further than you already have. You do too much for me as is," he said.

"And is that such a bad thing?"

" _Yes!_ " he barked, face twisting in anger.

Gwen jumped slightly in surprise.

Aberline blinked twice, and slowly his features softened, replaced with a look of dismay when he realized what had just happened. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to shout," he said, lowering his head into his hands.

"It's all right," said Gwen, having recovered from the outburst. "You're very tired, and you're becoming agitated."

"No," came his mumbled reply. He lowered his hands from his face and looked up to her with bloodshot eyes. "It's not that. It's so much more than that."

"Then what is it? You can talk to me," said Gwen.

His eyes lingered on hers, searching. He saw nothing but genuine concern in those grey irises.

"Please, Inspector," she continued. "You cannot bear this burden alone as you have been."

Aberline's shoulders drooped defeatedly, and he let out a slow breath. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up," he said quietly.

"Are your colleagues starting to suspect?" asked Gwen.

Aberline shook his head. "No. I have them all fooled. Those closer to me notice that something is wrong, but they haven't a clue what. They think it's just leftover stress from my time in Blackmoor."

Gwen frowned. "Then I don't understand. If it's not that then..."

"It's this curse," he said. "It rules every aspect of my life now. I throw myself into my work, trying to banish it from my mind, but something always happens that shatters the illusion of normalcy. I can't escape it...even in sleep it haunts me. Do you know how long it has been since I've gotten more than a few hours of sleep at night? I couldn't even tell you. And that's not even the worst part." As the inspector spoke, he was becoming increasingly distraught—his words pouring out of his mouth in rapid succession. "The worst part is that no one suspects me of being anything other than a man. I pass people on the street, in the hallways at work and... _nothing._ I know it doesn't make sense, and that I should be glad for it, but it just makes me feel so much worse. I go to work every day, pretending that I am one of them. These men put their trust in me, and I repay them with deceit. I've even begun cutting myself off from them for fear of discovery."

Gwen started to interject, but the inspector kept going. By this point she was beginning to notice the slight trembling of his body. He wasn't even looking at her now, and instead had his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

"Every time I speak to anyone, I can't help but imagine how things would change if they knew what I was. How much they would despise me. And they should. I'm a horrible monster who would kill every last one of them if they came across me. Oh God, what am I to do? I can't keep on living like this! Lying in wait for that thing to come and rip my humanity from me again!" he cried. His body was completely shuddering now, and his breaths were coming out erratically.

Gwen immediately recognized what she was witnessing: the inspector was having a panic attack.

She rose from the chair and went over to sit next to him on the couch. He didn't seem to notice her relocation until she placed a hand on his back and began rubbing comforting circles into it. The inspector stilled under her touch, before continuing his frantic breathing. His hands shot up to clutch at the front of his jacket. He sounded as if he was choking.

"There, there... Just let it all out," Gwen cooed. A small sob escaped him before he stifled it by bringing a hand to his mouth. "It's all right," continued Gwen. "It's just us here—you can let it all out."

"I don't—" he started to say, but found that his throat was too tight to even speak. He waited a moment, trying to catch his breath. "I don't think I can go through this again. It's too horrible!" he cried pitifully.

"I know it is, but let's not focus on that right now. Just focus on calming yourself. I want you to try to take deep, slow breaths. Can you do that for me?" asked Gwen.

Aberline nodded and tried breathing in deeply. His first breath caught in his throat, causing him to make a wheezing noise, and he tried again. This time he had more success, and he managed to gradually ease himself into a steady rhythm.

"Good," praised Gwen. "You're doing wonderfully." As she continued to rub his back, she could feel his muscles starting to relax as his breathing slowed. It was several minutes later when he had finally reached a state of calm.

"Thank you," she heard him whisper. When she looked at him she saw that his head was bowed and his eyes were closed in concentration.

"Think nothing of it. I have experience with this sort of thing," she said.

A moment passed, before Aberline opened his eyes and turned slightly to look at her. "Dare I ask how you've come to be so adept at calming grown men suffering bouts of hysteria?"

Gwen let out a small chuckle. The inspector was back down to earth again, and she delighted in her small victory. "Perhaps I will tell you over another bowl of soup?" she prompted.

He hesitated, wiping the moisture from his eyes. "I don't know if I should."

"Come now, you can't just stop at one. My father used to say that hot soup healed the soul," she said. Aberline still looked unsure, and Gwen prodded more. "There's plenty to be had. And you look like you could use a second helping."

"...Very well," Aberline said, giving in. He was still hungry, and the display from earlier had left him feeling drained. Also, he felt guilty that she had made so much for him, and it would be rude to decline the offer of another bowl.

Gwen smiled and grabbed the bowl from the table and stood. Aberline watched as she went into the kitchen.

Almost as soon as he was left alone, his thoughts turned back to the negative. It was as if Miss Conliffe's very presence was the only thing keeping him from falling back into despair. He knew this could not be healthy, relying on her for happiness, but he couldn't help how he felt. She was the only one he could talk openly with about his condition and, consequently, the only one who could provide any sort of comfort for when things became too hard for him to bear.

His musings were broken when Gwen entered the parlor with a tray holding _two_ bowls of the hot broth. She set the tray down on the small table and placed one of the bowls in his hands before taking her seat in the wooden chair across from him.

"Thank you," he said, before meekly adding, "I'll try to actually use the spoon this time."

"You're very welcome. And I really don't care how you go about eating it, as long as you do," said Gwen, giving him a small smile. She grabbed her own bowl off of the tray and began sipping from her spoon. Aberline followed suit, although eating with the utensil felt much too slow for him.

They ate in an oddly amiable silence, save for the sound of the logs crackling in the hearth. This was probably the most at peace Aberline had felt in weeks. And to think he had almost gone and missed out on it.

Minutes later he had finished, and he set his bowl down. Gwen looked up from her own bowl and found that he was looking at her. "Is there something wrong?" she asked.

"No, nothing's wrong. I've just been thinking... If I am to stay here each month, then at least let me pay you for your troubles," he said.

"I don't want your money, Inspector. And you are no trouble at all, so you needn't worry," said Gwen.

"Please, I must insist on paying you. This can't be easy, and you're putting yourself in danger," he reasoned.

Gwen pressed her lips into a line. "I'm not doing this for any sort of financial gain. I'm doing this to help keep people safe, and to help keep you safe."

"I understand that, Miss Conliffe, and find it very admirable, but you deserve some sort of compensation—at least for the damages in the cellar."

"You do not owe me anything, Inspector," she assured.

Aberline looked at her as if she had said the most preposterous thing in the world. " _Don't owe you anything?_ Miss Conliffe, I owe you _everything_. The only reason I can continue on at the Yard is because of your hospitality. You're the reason why I am not already a murderer. Please, if there is anything I can do for you, I shall. Anything you ask of me will never compare to the generous aid you have provided."

Gwen remained silent, thinking over the inspector's proposal. She had no need of his money, but as she looked at him she could see the eagerness in his eyes. He truly was bent on providing her with some sort of payment, and she suspected that by doing so it would help ease some of the guilt he felt, which to her was entirely unwarranted.

Suddenly an idea came to her, and she could not help the smile that grew on her face. "Actually, there is a way you can repay me," she told him.

Aberline leaned forward in anticipation. "I'll do anything," he said. "Just tell me what it is you want, and I'll do it."

"Have dinner with me this Saturday."

Had he still been drinking his broth he would have choked on it. "I might have spoken too soon," he murmured, sitting back down against the couch.

"I think it would be in both our best interests if we interacted under normal circumstances, and what better scenario for that than to have dinner? I couldn't help but notice that you've lost some weight, and you've been under so much strain lately. I just think it would be a good idea," she said.

Aberline opened his mouth to speak, before immediately closing it. He was unable to find any objection, other than that he really did not want to; it was already hard enough talking with the woman now. Although, he had to admit that it was not as painful as he previously imagined it would be.

"You did say that you would do anything," reminded Gwen, sensing his reluctance.

"I know I did, Miss Conliffe. But your request... I'm just not sure if I'm completely comfortable with the idea," he said, rubbing at his beard.

"Please?" she said. "We could become better acquainted with one another, which might help make coming here each month a bit easier."

"Forgive me, Miss Conliffe, but I doubt any amount of acquaintance will help with that," he said dryly.

"Maybe you're right. But we should at least try it. It will be easier coming to a friend's house rather than someone who's practically a stranger, won't it?" she asked. "And it sounds like you could use a good friend right now."

"I'll have you know I have plenty of friends," he returned snappishly.

"Outside of work," Gwen clarified.

Aberline thought on it for a moment. "There is this nice old lady who lives next door..."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "At least consider it. It would make this whole ordeal much less awkward if we were able to speak to one another like normal people."

"We're _not_ normal people, Miss Conliffe," he reminded.

"Well maybe not, but we can at least pretend to be, can't we?" she asked.

"I've been doing that every day for the past month," he said with a tired sigh. "I... _suppose_...we could, possibly, try."

Gwen's face lit up. "Very good. Thank you for being open to the idea," she said happily.

Aberline did not seem to share her enthusiasm on the matter, but even he acknowledged the merits of becoming friends. However, doubt still nagged at him. Could he and Miss Conliffe ever have that sort of relationship? They've each been through so much, both being survivors of the horrible tragedy that took place in Blackmoor; neither would ever forget that short but traumatic time for the rest of their lives. He supposed that their shared experience bound them to each other in a way that they could never be with anyone else.

Suppose they did manage to form some kind of odd friendship—would that really make things easier? Or would it only complicate things? He was unable to continue this line of thought when Gwen started speaking again.

"Well, now that that's settled, I don't suppose I can talk you into staying home from work?"

 _Work! What time was it?_

He looked around the room for a clock, and found one just next to the kitchen doorway. It was 7:35, and it would take nearly twenty-five minutes to reach Scotland Yard.

"I'm sorry Miss Conliffe, I have to go," he said abruptly, rising from the couch. The quick movement sent blood rushing to his head, and he swayed slightly on his feet. Gwen rose to help steady him but he waved her off. "I'm all right. I just have to go or I'll be late."

He grabbed the leather bag at his feet and walked through the parlor room entrance and out into the shop, where his coat and hat hung next to the door. He quickly placed both on and turned back to Gwen, who had followed him to the door. He looked her over briefly, before saying, "I'll write to you about Saturday." Not knowing what else to say, and being pressed for time, he turned and left.

"Goodbye, Inspector. And be careful," he heard Gwen say as the door swung closed behind him.

* * *

He had made it to work on time, and surprisingly everything seemed normal. No one batted an eye at him as he passed through the lobby and went to the lift. Within minutes he was on the third floor, heading to his office. He was almost to his door when Hopkins appeared out of nowhere from behind him.

"Good morning, Inspector," he heard him call.

Damn. And he was so close, too. Slowly he turned to see Hopkins approaching him. "Good morning," he greeted.

Hopkins came to a stop in front of him, and Aberline could see that the other man was eyeing him oddly. He felt his muscles grow tense under the other man's stare, and he was already coming up with an excuse to leave.

"I—"

"Have you done something new with your hair?" Hopkins asked, giving Aberline pause.

"No...I haven't," Aberline replied slowly.

"Really? It looks different. Fuller. Are you letting it grow out?" he asked.

Aberline frowned and brought a hand to his hair. It didn't feel much different than it had the day before. "No, I haven't done anything with it," he said. Whatever Hopkins was seeing, it probably didn't mean anything good for him. He needed to be alone. "I'm sorry George, but I have a lot of paperwork I need finished," he said quickly, and with that, he turned and entered his office, shutting the door behind him.

Hopkins remained out in the hall, a bit bewildered by the odd exchange. Never had he seen the inspector behave like this. It was highly out of character, and it didn't sit well with him. Whatever was going on with Aberline, it was causing him to seclude himself in his office for hours on end, and to completely cut off contact with anyone else other than Bradford. Was the commissioner having him work on some secret assignment? If that was the case, then surely he would be in the know! Maybe he was over thinking the entire thing. Maybe Aberline was just simply stressed. He had noticed that his boss's health had been steadily declining over the past week or so. And just now, when he was stood two feet from the man, he could see the paleness of his complexion and the dark shadows under his eyes. The inspector had appeared ill, and it didn't take a trained doctor to tell that the man should not be at work.

What was going on, Hopkins did not truly know. But he planned to ask Aberline about it, when the time was right. He was becoming increasingly concerned for his boss's health, and thought that the man was pushing himself too hard. If he kept carrying on like this, there was no telling what would happen.

Something was not right with the inspector, and he intended to get to the bottom of it. One way or another.

* * *

 **I am so-so-so sorry it has taken me this long to update. And this isn't even how I had originally intended to end the chapter. But I was pressed for time** — **I'm leaving on a flight for Florida tomorrow (technically _today_ ) morning, and I am going to be gone till the 29th. I'm spending Thanksgiving down there with my uncle and cousins, one of which is getting married. I'm also going down there to check out colleges, so that'll be exciting! **

**I'm also sorry that this chapter might be full of errors. Errors that I will be unable to correct until I return, so I'm sorry if you find any big ones that throw you off.**

 **Also, little tidbit: Chicken stock is made by marinating chicken bones in a pan of water, and then adding veggies and spices. It apparently is very healthy, and due to the bones, helps with joint pain, boosts the immune system, supports hair and nail growth, and a multitude of other things, so Gwen was very thoughtful in her choice of food.**

 **Anyhoo, I'm going to bed. Gotta be up at 6:45. Have a good night (or day) everybody!**


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